Never Resist a Rake (20 page)

“Please God, no,” she said as his lips brushed her temple, her closed eyelids, the hollow of her throat. All the while, his wicked fingers played a lover's game on her sensitive flesh. She moaned when he stopped and started to withdraw, and then moaned louder when he resumed his gentle assault. She seemed to have grown a second heart. The new one pounded between her legs.

He bent his head and suckled her nipple through the thin linen of her chemise. She begged him to stop. She urged him to go on. This must be what madness was. Soft, meaningless sounds escaped her lips, and she was powerless to control them.

He straightened and covered her mouth with his own then, to still her. When his tongue matched his finger's stroke, a sun burst forth inside her, sending warmth and light to every corner of her body. Deep bliss radiated in concentric spasms. Intense joy. More than she could hope.

Rebecca let her head fall back. Was it her imagination or were the stars falling again? Her breath caught with the glow of tiny aftershocks. He gave her sensitive spot one last stroke and pulled his hand away.

“Oh, don't leave me,” she whimpered.

“You couldn't drive me away.” He picked her up and carried her to the waiting bed. He laid her out with such tenderness, she wept. He stroked her cheek. “What's this?”

“I'm so happy, I can't hold it all.”

He frowned for a heartbeat. “But I want to give you more.”

“Oh, yes, please. If the happiness leaks out, so be it.” She lifted her arms to him as he lowered himself to settle on her. She welcomed the weight of his body, the hardness, the raw maleness of him. Only a moment ago, all had been light and peace, but now emptiness yawned inside her again. The ache that had seemed fully assuaged roared back to life, and she helped him position himself between her legs with greedy hands.

John grasped her bum. She tilted her hips to guide him to her hot wetness, and he entered her in one smooth stroke.

She gasped at the sudden rending, but then the pain dissolved with the joy of stretching to receive all of him. In one blinding moment, she knew she'd committed the infamous “it.”

“But how did this happen? We're dressed. I'm still wearing my night rail,” she whispered in disbelief. She thought she would have had a bit more warning. “Your trousers are still bunched at your knees.”

“Sorry, Biscuit.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I was in a hurry. I'll take my time now.”

And without any further ado, Rebecca bid her virginity farewell. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he thrust into her again and again. Slowly, deeply, the man surged inside her. Rebecca moved in tandem with him, rising to meet each thrust.

John raised himself up to look down at her as he moved. She didn't shrink from his intense scrutiny. She read the love on his face and knew he accepted all of her. All she was—good and bad—he was welcome to know, to handle. She'd let him push her to the limits of her flesh and to the farthest edge her spirit could reach.

A muscle twitched in his cheek, and she chanted his name softly. A deep groan tore loose from his throat, and she felt his seed course into her, hot and deep. She strained against him, reveling in his pulsing release.

When it was over, he gathered her close, unwilling to separate from her yet.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I'll love you till my last breath.”

“And I you.” She pressed a hand to his dear cheek. The stubble of his beard prickled her palm. Together, they'd sweep away the pain of his past and build a future worth having. Only the present was a source of worry. “I wish we didn't have to steal these moments.”

“It won't be long,” he promised. Then he frowned, seeming to change his mind. “No, blast it all, it's not fair to you to wait. I see now it was pigheaded of me to believe I can outscheme the Barrett family. I don't care what they think. We'll announce our engagement tomorrow and devil take the consequences.”

John slipped from her body, and the separation left her strangely bereft. Then he eased off her to stretch out beside her and smoothed down her night rail to cover her.

She silently blessed his thoughtfulness. Somehow, he'd known that now that they'd done “it,” she was feeling a little shy.

“No, John. We shouldn't make any announcements yet.” Rebecca considered helping him tug up his trousers, but he didn't seem a bit shy, letting his big body rest against hers. She liked the feel of him there too much to offer to cover him. “Your plan to make me more acceptable by comparison is a good one. Lady Chloe is…well, if not beyond the pale at least halfway over the fence. And you said she knows of and agrees with your plan?”

“She thought it would be fun, actually. She's happy to help.”

Rebecca quickly reevaluated the beautiful lady. Lady Chloe had a generous, if somewhat devious, spirit. “If your family thinks you're likely to offer for Lady Chloe, perhaps they would decide I was a more conventional choice. It would smooth the way for them to accept us.”

“I don't care about making it easy for them.” A little bitterness crept back into his tone. “It's you I'm concerned about. I don't want them giving you a moment's grief.”

She kissed him again, gently this time, unhurried by passion. The kiss was almost unbearably sweet.

John was honest, intelligent, and devoted—all she'd ever wished for in a man. She couldn't hold a single drop more happiness if her hope of heaven depended upon it.

From deep in the house, the longcase clock chimed.

“I need to go. I won't have you face scandal on my account.” John rolled out of bed, tugging up his trousers. He didn't move quite quickly enough. Rebecca was treated to a glimpse of his tight bum. The sight made her sigh.

“You're right, but it hurts my heart for you to leave.” She climbed out of bed and helped him slip his shirt over his head. “Good night, my lord.”

“My lady.” John backed away from her, holding her hand, then just her fingertips until he'd exceeded the length of his reach. Then he unlocked the door, slipped out, and closed it softly behind himself.

Rebecca couldn't return to the bed. It would seem too empty without him. Instead, she pushed back the thick damask curtains and peered into the southern sky. A single falling star streaked the blackness.

Now that John was gone, Rebecca realized she'd taken as big a gamble as her father ever had. She'd wagered everything on a man's promise. When he was with her, it hadn't seemed such a leap of faith, but now prickles of unease ruffled over her.

She watched the sky for another quarter hour, but no other meteorites appeared. The solitary one she'd seen seemed cold and lonely.

She shook off the fancy that it was a harbinger of things to come.

Plenty of game in the thickets, loaded rifles, and shaky-fingered men who shoot only once or twice a year—what could possibly go wrong?

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“My lord, ought we not stop for a moment? Her ladyship may be fatigued with all this mucking about in the weeds,” Porter said hopefully.

“Don't worry about me, Mr. Porter,” Lady Chloe Endicott said airily. “I live for adventure, and this hunt is the merest lark. Now, if Lord Hartley offered to take me on safari to darkest Africa, I might become a bit winded, but believe me, I'd jump at the chance.”

She'd jump at any chance where his lordship was concerned
, Porter thought sourly, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. He was no judge of such things, admittedly, but he couldn't help but wish Lord Hartley were spending the day with that nice Miss Kearsey instead of this bold—dare he say
garish
?—woman.

He trudged after Lord Hartley and Lady Chloe, shifting the weight of the lady's shotgun and its accoutrements from one shoulder to the other.

“But I'm a valet, my lord,” he'd told his employer when his lordship first proposed that Porter act as the lady's bearer. “I'm not trained for such things.”

“All you have to do is tramp through the woods with us while carrying the lady's weapon,” Lord Hartley said in a tone that brooked no refusal. “How much training does that require?”

Evidently more than Porter possessed. He'd never gone hunting in his life. He'd been in service since he was a boy and prided himself on securing employment that allowed him to work inside, thank you very much. He was happiest when keeping as far away from dirt and insects and creeping things that scuttled through the underbrush as he could. Porter was no woodsman and didn't wish to become one.

The forest was so thick in this section, he'd tripped on a root that snaked across the ground and went sprawling once. The shotgun had discharged when it hit the ground, though thankfully no one was hit. His lordship seemed more concerned about the gun than about Porter, and was relieved that it had suffered no damage.

The same could not be said for Porter. He had a bruise on his right shin that hurt like billy-o. His ears were still ringing, and if the weapon accidentally fired again, he couldn't promise he wouldn't need a change of drawers.

After that mishap, Lord Hartley told him it was all right for him to carry the gun empty. If Lady Chloe saw something she simply had to kill, she'd have to take the time to load first.

However, as much noise as the lady made, laughing and talking as they blundered through the undergrowth, Porter suspected any self-respecting prey would have removed itself to the next shire by now.

“I hope we get a big buck with a simply enormous rack of antlers,” Lady Chloe said. “I need a trophy for my drawing room.”

“I suspect you've trophies aplenty already, but I'd wager they're of the two-legged variety,” his lordship said.

Lady Chloe laughed again.

Honestly,
Porter thought,
the
woman
must
have
a
feather
trapped
in
her
unmentionables, the way she goes giggling, chuckling, and downright guffawing through life.
He purposely let himself fall a little farther behind the pair, but he was exceptionally keen of hearing and could still make out her words.

“How well you know me, Hartley,” the lady said. “I have indeed dined on my share of hearts, but society would frown on me even more than it already does if I tried mounting all those heads!”

It wasn't Porter's place to say the lady was gauche in the extreme. But nothing could keep him from thinking it as loudly as he pleased.

“Hush,” his lordship said as he crouched down to the ground. “Fresh scat. There may be game nearby.”

The report of a rifle sounded, but no other hunters were visible. It made Porter nervous. He pitied the deer who'd done no one any wrong. He pitied the pheasant and quail whose only crime was having tasty flesh when properly roasted. He pitied himself.

He might not provide a trophy or fill a dinner plate, but was he in any less danger?

Another sharp crack echoed through the trees, and suddenly Porter felt as though he'd sat on a hot nail. Then something warm began to trickle down the back of his leg. Porter reached around and found the seat of his trousers sticky.

He brought his hand up in front of his face. His wet fingers shook. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision, which began to contract into an ever-narrowing tunnel.

“I say, my lord,” he said in a quavering voice before he winked out completely, “is this blood?”

* * *

“Hurry, Mister… Well, hurry up, will you?” Not being able to recall his bearer's name made Lord Somerset short-tempered. He was sure the man had been with him for years, carrying his weapon and helping him track game whenever Somerset was of a mind to go hunting. Why couldn't he recall his name? “It's a monstrous big buck, and I'm sure I hit him, but confound it, I can't be certain it was a clean kill. We must find him before he drags himself deeper into the undergrowth.”

He handed his weapon back to his bearer and started off in the direction of his prey. It had been a difficult shot. He'd heard the low murmur of conversation and discerned a couple of people in the woods, but a few yards behind them he'd seen the characteristic hesitant ruffle in the distant underbrush that signaled the presence of a grazing animal. It felt good to take the shot.

In fact, he felt more himself while he tramped in the woods, more in control when hunting his land. It was as if the bracing November air cleared his head and allowed him to think cogent thoughts for the first time in weeks.

Except for not being able to recall that blasted man's name.

Somerset broke into a trot and felt his years slough away as the low-hanging branches flayed his cheeks. It was as if the fall off the roof never happened. He was the same man he'd been last year for the hunt. He was the marquess again, not a pale shadow of himself. He was—

Doomed.

As Lord Somerset broke into a clearing, he found a man and a woman kneeling around a third prone figure which boasted neither horns nor hooves.

“Oh Lord, no.”

It hadn't been a deer foraging in the thicket. He'd shot a man. Accidentally, to be sure, but the man was down all the same.

The confidence he'd experienced only a few seconds ago withered like the season's last rose. He shrank into himself. Richard was right to have him declared incompetent. He was unfit to wander without a keeper. He ought to be committed to Bedlam where he could do no harm. He ought—

“Your lordship,” the kneeling man shouted to him. “A little assistance, if you please.”

That damnable mist was descending on his mind again, sending rational thought scurrying like vermin before a lit candle. But the kneeling man seemed vaguely familiar.

“John?”

The man's face lifted in a smile which faded quickly when he turned back to the fallen fellow.

Oh, that's right. He's John Fitzhugh, a new footman.
No, that wasn't it. He was… This tall man with Sadie's eyes…he was…
Oh
Lord, he has her eyes.

“My son,” he said. “You're my son.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man glanced up at him and then down at the still fellow on the ground again. “Yes, I am, and I'm gladder than I can tell you to hear you say so, but right now I need your help. Porter has been shot.”

“I know. I did it. I thought he was a deer.” Even though this was a horrible turn of events, it felt right to take responsibility for it. That was what a man did, wasn't it? Porter was lying facedown in the bracken. He didn't so much as twitch a muscle. Somerset's heart clenched like a fist. “Is…is he dead?”

“No, only fainted. You shot him in the bum. I doubt it's mortal, but he'll need a pillow to sit on for a while. Here, my lady, can you carry the weapons?” John handed his rifle to the woman who was gamely holding a lacy handkerchief to the valet's backside to stanch the bleeding. “Come help me, sir. We need to carry him back to the house and call a doctor.”

“Dr. Partridge.” Somerset was surprised at how quickly that name sprang to his lips. Perhaps the mist in his mind was clearing again. “A good man, that. Partridge will see Mr. Porter right as rain.”

Somerset knelt and helped his son lift the valet from the forest floor. His son, his lost son, his heir. Where did he lose such a fine young man? How could he have allowed such a terrible thing to occur? How did he happen to find him again? He shoved those questions aside for the moment and concentrated on the job at hand. With him on one side of Mr. Porter and his son John on the other, they started carrying the valet through the woods. The lady who'd been accompanying Lord Hartley followed after them, helpfully bearing the weapons and refraining admirably from female histrionics.

Somerset's bearer came puffing up to them then. “Here, your lordship. Let me take your place.”

“No, it's my responsibility, Dawson.” His servant's name suddenly came nimbly to Somerset's tongue. Even though he'd shot a faithful retainer like Porter, his heart lightened. His mind was his own, for the moment at least. “I'll carry Mr. Porter home. My son John will help me.”

* * *

“There you are, Mr. Porter,” Dr. Partridge said as he tied off the last stitch on Porter's throbbing bum. The sweet, tarry smell of carbolic soap used to scrub the wound still lingered in the air and burned his insulted flesh.

Porter gripped the iron rail at the foot of his bed to keep from crying out. He'd already disgraced himself by fainting away like a little girl at the sight of his own blood. The last thing he wanted to do was squeal like one.

“The bullet went through the…ahem…gluteus maximus and out again without doing any lasting damage. A fairly shallow wound track for a gun shot,” Dr. Partridge said. “You'll be sore for a while, but all things considered, you're a very lucky man, Mr. Porter.”

Porter didn't feel very lucky. He felt very humiliated.

“I'd like to see this left to the open air to heal, but I don't suppose that's practical,” the doctor said.

“No, indeed,” Porter said through clenched teeth. Bad enough to have been shot in the backside; he wasn't about to lie there with his nether crack smiling at the ceiling, his buttocks bare as a matched pair of river stones. Not even if, as Lord Hartley's valet, he did rate his own room in the servants' wing, and it was unlikely anyone would barge in and see him.

“Well, then, this bandage will have to do for now. I'll be back tomorrow to see how you're getting on.” Dr. Partridge repacked his supplies into his medical bag and covered Porter with a sheet up to the waist.

Porter was still in his shirtsleeves, so he was more or less decently covered. He breathed a relieved sigh.

“I expect you'll be uncomfortable tonight, but I don't recommend doses of laudanum for this sort of thing,” the doctor said. “Too easy to lean on that particular crutch.”

“No, I wouldn't have it, in any case. Thank ye kindly.” He wouldn't say no to a dose of Mr. Hightower's private stash of spirits. He thought a tot of rum was likely not to be forthcoming though. The butler was very parsimonious with liquor for the below stairs staff.

“Doctor,” Porter said, stopping him as he reached the door. “Does…does everyone know where I was shot?”

Dr. Partridge's lips pursed in an amused moue. “I wish I could say no, but Toby relieved Lord Somerset when he and Lord Hartley were bearing you up the stairs. He learned about the location of your…wound and…” A chuckle escaped his lips. “You mustn't blame the young fellow. It's just too good to keep.”

The doctor slipped out the door and Porter quietly banged his forehead against the iron footboard. He'd be a laughingstock for weeks…months…possibly years. How would he ever face the rest of the below stairs folk?

Most especially, how would he face Mrs. Culpepper?

Then, as if he'd conjured her, she opened his door with her helper, Theresa, at her side, bearing a supper tray.

“Oh, good. Ye're awake, Mr. Porter.”

He'd give anything to be able to faint again right now. He'd felt decently covered a moment ago, but he was wearing only his shirt. Without his jacket, he'd be considered as good as naked so far as society was concerned if he were standing upright. Crivens! Beneath the sheets, he
was
naked from the waist down, barring his stockings. What on earth was the woman thinking to come to his room like this?

“Theresa, set that tray down and then hie yourself back to the common room.” The cook moved the only chair in the room from its place in the corner to his bedside. “Mr. Hightower will be wanting tea for the others, and ye'll have to see to it. Make me proud, girl.”

“Yes, Mrs. C. I hope you're feeling better, Mr. Porter,” the girl said between suppressed giggles.

“Never ye mind about how the man feels. How should he feel after being shot in his nethers?” Mrs. Culpepper drew herself up to her full yet unimpressive height as she continued to scold the girl. “Just ye keep
your
mind on your work and your hands busy. If I hear ye've been mooning around in the gallery again when ye think no one sees, I'll send ye packing, and that's a promise. Now scoot.”

Theresa scurried out of the room as if her skirt were on fire.

“Well then, how can I make ye more comfortable?” Mrs. C asked.

By
pretending
I'm not lying here with naught on my backside but a bit of gauze and a thin sheet of linen.
But of course, he couldn't say that. “Perhaps a pillow from the head of the bed?”