My Favorite Bride (28 page)

Below her, he rolled his hips. “Take your pleasure.”

The movement lifted her, placing all of his parts firmly against hers, and bringing her a rush of such desire she flushed and grew damper yet.

If he did that again, she would be lost. Desperate to draw this out, this last time, she said, “Don't move. I'm the one in control.”

He laughed, a husky, mocking laughter. “Control? You're not in control. I'm not in control. We're at the mercy of our passions, swept together and clinging madly to one another.” He laughed again. He looked into her eyes, challenging her, as he made a show of loosening his grip from the bedposts. Slowly, he reached for her, touched her thighs, slid his hands up to her hips . . .

Her spine sagged, her body softened in the sweet rush of passion. He was right. It was passion that swept them along, changing them forever.

He urged her to rise on her knees, adjusted her and himself, and found the damp, warm center of her. Together, they paused, savoring the anticipation.

Waiting was ecstasy.

The gradual push of his body into hers was more, greater, grander than any moment had ever been in her whole life. She took him in slow increments, with hesitations in between so gratifying they brought tears to her eyes. With each forward movement, his breath rasped in his throat, and she gave a moan of helpless need. The joining, for all
that they'd done it twice before, was still new, a miracle of pleasure. He reached the deepest point; he touched her so deeply inside, with so much heat, it was as if he branded her. She moved away quickly, almost tearing herself apart from him, but he caught her hips and entered once more.

The two of them groaned out loud, caught together in the trap of rapture. She moved faster, the mattress bouncing beneath her knees. She loved this; the scents, the sounds, the warmth, the closeness.

Moving with a strong rhythm, she leaned down to put her face close to his. “I'm yours.”

“Yes!” His eyes blazed with triumph.

She pulled him into her. “And you are mine.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes.”
I love you. I love you.

“Don't ever leave me.”

I do love you.

He threw his head back, straining in agonized pleasure. He clasped her tightly against him. His hips surged and he filled her with warmth and wetness. With seed. With him.

Chapter Twenty-eight

As William slumbered, Samantha slipped from the bed. Last night, Clarinda had laid out her traveling garments; Samantha gathered them and tiptoed into the main room. Her trunk was there, packed and ready to be loaded, as well as her gloves, her hat, and her coat. As she donned her clothes, she looked around the room, seeking anything she might have forgotten, but there was nothing. She had left no mark on this place where she'd found heaven and descended into hell. She supposed that was good, except . . . from her reticule, she took her knife and knelt beside the table where William had showed her so much love. Underneath on the unvarnished surface, she scratched her initials, and William's, and encircled them with a heart.

Stupid, really. No one would ever see it. But she would know it was there, forever, and she wanted there to be something of forever in her love.

Or rather . . . her passion. William was right. That explained why a man like him would want to wed a woman he despised. Why a woman like her would seduce a man witless and harsh.

Glancing out the window, she saw a line of figures: six girls, twelve to two, dressed in dark blue ankle-length gowns, their hair tightly braided and their black boots shined. Emmeline had only one glove. Vivian's hat hung down her back. They all looked slightly sleepy, and they stood staring at the little cottage, doggedly waiting for . . . well, she didn't imagine she would get away without talking to them, did she?

With a heavy heart, she walked into the cool air and over to the solemn little line. “Girls.” She held out her arms.

They stared at her with accusing eyes.

“The housekeeper says you're leaving,” Agnes said. “You aren't, are you?”

Then Emmeline broke, and ran to her, and the others followed, hugging her, holding her, sniffling into her skirt.

“Miss Prendregast, Miss Prendregast, don't leave us,” Henrietta begged.

“Yeth, Mith Prendregast, we'll be good,” Emmeline said.

In a mature voice so unlike the petulant child of the last week, Agnes said, “Miss Prendregast, you've been our best governess, and you've been
my best friend. Please, please, can't you find a way to stay?”

She broke Samantha's heart. They all broke Samantha's heart, and she hadn't thought it could break any more. She took the little ones' hands. “Let's go for a walk.”

“That means
no
,” Kyla whispered.

The subdued little group trudged through the dew-dampened grass, leaving a trail of footprints.

Samantha knew she had to say something. Something wise. She had to say the right thing. And she feared there was only one right thing, and she had only one chance to say it. “Do you know why I'm leaving? Did Mrs. Shelbourn tell you that?”

The children shook their heads in doleful unison.

“Because, when I was very young, I was a thief.”

The children gasped.

“Oh, yes. I was the worst kind of sinner. I robbed people of their money and their belongings. I cut their purses.” She stopped walking and looked at each one of them. Poor, wide-eyed, shocked little dears. They didn't know what to say. They didn't know what to do. “I was good at what I did, and I was famous. I even had a nickname—the Theater Pickpocket. The wealthy used to brag they'd had their pockets picked by me. Even people who hadn't, bragged. But one day I cut the wrong purse, and the owner of that purse took me in hand. Lady Bucknell made me see the error of my ways, and I reformed.” Samantha swallowed. This was the hard part. The part that hurt. “But once you've got a reputation, it is yours for all time.
When people hear that I was once a thief, they think I must still be a thief. When something goes missing and I'm anywhere near, they blame me.”

“Did you take my mama's miniature?” Vivian accused her with expression and words.

Samantha swayed, hurt yet again when she didn't think she could hurt anymore.

“No, she didn't!” Mara smacked Vivian.

Samantha walked backward until the back of the bench touched her skirt, then she sank down. “You see? Already Vivian is suspicious.” She looked down at her gloves, then up at the children. “No, Vivian, I didn't, but your papa thinks I did.”

“I thought you helped him catch the bad lady last night,” Mara said. “Doesn't that make him like you more?”

“I did help, but that made his opinion of me worse, really. I used my pickpocket skills to help him, and proved conclusively I had been a thief. I was condemned no matter what action I took.”

“Who took Mama's miniature?” Agnes asked. “If we could discover that, you could stay.”

Samantha had to tread carefully. “I can't say who took your mother's miniature, but even if we knew, I wouldn't stay. You see, your papa thinks the worst of me, and I will not remain and wait to be accused again.”

“Miss Prendregast, I'm sorry.” Vivian ran to her, sat next to her, and wrapped her arms around Samantha's shoulders. “I shouldn't have blamed you.”

“It's all right.” Samantha stroked her hair.
“Other people have made that mistake.”

“We wanted you to be our mother,” Agnes said.

Oh, dear. “I would love to be your mother, but you know, and I know, that a former thief, a governess, and a woman with no background and no family can't marry a man as important as your father.”

“You can thso.” Emmeline's eyes flashed.

“Also, I would do you children no good as you went out for your debuts.”

Agnes bunched her fists at her waist. “I'd like to hear someone say anything bad about you.”

“You will.”

“Father's in love with you,” Henrietta said.

Samantha caught her breath. Is that why he insisted she stay? Because he thought he was in love with her? Or was it because he'd taken her maidenhead and he believed in some murky, shamefaced little corner of his soul that he had to make things right? “Maybe he thinks he is. He'll get over it soon.” From the depths of her bitter soul, she dragged the words, “Men always do.”

“It's not fair,” Kyla wailed.

Samantha discovered an incongruous smile playing on her lips. “Life never is, dear. The thing to remember is—when you're doing something that you know is wrong, to stop it and make things right.”

“We're only children.” Mara's chin raised belligerently. “How do we know if something's wrong?”

“If you feel sick to your stomach all the time, waiting for someone to find out, then you're doing
wrong. If you find yourself hiding, afraid the light will reveal you, then you're doing wrong. If you cause hurt, then you're doing wrong.” Standing, Samantha went to Mara and touched her chin. “Mara, listen to your heart, and everything will come right.” Enough of that. That was perilously close to a lecture. “Now. I have to go. I'll never forget any of you.” Gorblimey, that was true. So true. “I'll keep you in my heart always.” She hugged each one of them, trying to find something special to say and failing miserably. Maybe she wasn't cut out for this governess stuff. Maybe it was better that she leave.

She left them standing there, a forlorn little group that held her fragile heart in their hands.

As she walked back into the cottage, she saw that her trunk was no longer in the main room.

A bad sign.

She found William standing in the bedchamber, fully dressed, looking absolutely delectable and staring at the rip in the sheets he'd made with his boots the night before.

“That will cause gossip in the servants' hall,” she said.

He looked up at her so calmly, she knew he'd heard her enter. He scrutinized her, and while his expression was pleasant his blue eyes scorched her with their heat. “Why are you wearing your hat and gloves? You surely didn't plan to go visiting so early on this fine morning. We have our wedding to plan.”

He made her want to cry.

He made her want to rage.

She would only allow the rage. “As I'd planned, I'm leaving. I'm going back to the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, and once there, I'm going to suggest to Lady Bucknell that I'm an unsuitable governess. I would be better as a companion to an elderly woman, or as a director of a school, or any position that requires me to stay away from men.”

He strode toward her so quickly she backed up, an instinctive retreat that ended, not in the other room as she'd hoped, but in an ignominious smack against the door's casement.

“I'm afraid I'd have to write Lady Bucknell and tell her you can't be trusted in any position which allows you access to other people's money or possessions.”

The pain caused by his accusation took her breath away. What an idiot she was, expecting that a night of breathtaking sex would make him see her true character.

It hadn't, obviously, for he not only still believed her a thief, he believed that she would stay with him. “Yes, and between you and the last man who took a hatred to me, I suspect I'll be unable to obtain a position in England.” She shrugged with a fair imitation of insouciance. “I shall have to go abroad.”

“You can't do that.” He sounded direct, calm, as certain as a god making a pronouncement. “What would be the purpose? You can stay here and be my wife, with more possessions than ever you can as a governess—or a thief.”

He couldn't tell her what to do. He'd lost that right. “But there'll be no illicit thrill, will there? The excitement of picking a pocket. The thrill of
sneaking about and having an affair. That exhilaration will be gone.”

Placing his foot on the wooden chair, he leaned his elbow on his knee. “You can steal anything you like of mine if you'll stay.”

She looked at him, dressed like a buccaneer, with the confidence of a lord. “If I married you, it would all be mine, anyway. I can't steal from myself.”

He watched her so closely. Too closely, weighing all her reactions, reading everything but the truth. “At least give me back the miniature of my wife.”

She closed her eyes against a sudden rush of tears.

No.
No tears. The rage was better. “Your wife's possessions are a small enough token of your appreciation for the job I did with Lady Featherstonebaugh.”

As if she'd taken a lash to him, he caught his breath. Then he took her wrist, a slow, gentle capture. “Was it your father who taught you to steal?”

“Yes, but don't let that influence you. I was good at it, and I liked it. I liked the excitement of it. Sometimes I even miss it.” She bit her lip. That was true, but also tantamount to claiming she hadn't stolen his wife's miniature. And she would not waste her time with claims of innocence that he would disbelieve.

“You didn't eat if you were unsuccessful.”

“That's true of a thousand thieves, William. Don't start feeling compassion now. You'll end up confused.”

He stood over the top of her, let her feel the heat
of him, looked at her with those amazing eyes. “The children need you.”

“The children will do just fine.” That much was true.

“I need you.” He caressed her cheeks with his fingertips, and said the words that, yesterday, she would have killed to hear. “I love you.”

Did he believe it? Yes. Of course he did. There was no other reason for his amazing offer of marriage. He thought he loved her—but he didn't trust her.

This time she couldn't keep back the tears. “Is this what love is? A commodity that falters at the first sign of difficulty? Emotion without trust? An empty mind and a busy cock?” He tried to speak, but she put her hand over his mouth. “Don't answer. That
is
what love is. I've seen it time and again, and I reject it. I don't want your kind of love.” She pushed his hand away. “I deserve better.”

He looked at his fingers as if her touch had burned him. “I can't stand this. This hurts too much.”

“Good. Your paltry little emotions don't come close to mine.”

Looking down at her, he smiled, a smile stiff with pain. “As long as you're suffering as I am.”