Guilt. Duty. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
All afternoon, Rachel had worried about Henry Challoner. He was alone, with his father’s recriminations ringing in his ears. Did he have more than old soup to eat? What if his fever returned and he was so weak he couldn’t climb the stairs, or worse, fell down them?
Even her father had noticed her anxiety. He sat back in his chair after consuming a gratifying amount of roast chicken and waved his hand.
“Go on,” he’d said. “Go to him. I’m fine, and I can clean up as well as you can. I know Millie Grace is still over to Sheepscombe. She won’t get back until tomorrow if this rain keeps falling unless she comes by boat.”
Rachel hesitated. There would be plenty left over for her father’s lunch tomorrow even if she made up a plate for the viscount’s supper.
But what if his father and Sir Bertram had returned to bedevil him? She couldn’t dive into in the fishpond if they were there; it was too shallow to cover her.
Oh, hell. She’d risk it. Rachel felt honor-bound to take care of Henry, even if his father had been persuaded to change his mind about her.
Wet. Dirty. No better than she should be. It was the marquess’s fault she’d arrived in such disarray yesterday. Puddling’s streets were not designed for massive traveling coaches—in fact, they weren’t designed for wheeled vehicles at all. Four-footed creatures being driven to market by bipeds, yes. The village was ancient, its narrow roads even older, from Roman times.
“I won’t be long.”
Her father raised a bushy gray eyebrow but said nothing. Could it be Henry had charmed him too?
She parceled up the carrots, potatoes, rolls and chicken and filled a small jug with gravy. Adding wedges of apple pie and cheese, she tucked it all into a covered basket, feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf had proved too difficult to ignore.
Rufus watched her in anticipation, tongue lolling.
“No. You may not come with me. Don’t even think about it.”
He wagged his stump of a tail.
“Oh, all right. But you are to behave yourself. He’s the heir to a marquess. None of your usual tricks. You are to let him eat his lunch without making a nuisance of yourself, unlikely as that is.”
The dog followed her out the kitchen door. It was still raining lightly, and Rachel avoided the puddles where she could. She was not going to turn up on Henry’s doorstep in the same condition as yesterday. Rufus was not so particular, dashing about and encrusting himself with as much mud as possible.
If Henry was resting, she didn’t want to ring the bell and get him out of bed; she’d leave the food for him in the kitchen. At the last minute, she remembered he had pocketed the key that was always under a flower pot. But the handle turned—he hadn’t thought to lock the cottage up when she left in her cowardice.
“You are a filthy disgrace. There’s no point in looking at me like that, either. I am impervious to your charms.”
Rufus whined, but Rachel was steadfast. “I will be out in a minute. Stay.”
He huffed, reluctantly taking shelter under a bush. He gave her one last reproachful look before he turned around in three circles, lay down, and shut his eyes. Rachel was jealous that the dog could sleep virtually anywhere.
The house was silent. Fortunately Henry’s lifeless body was not sprawled across the stairs.
“Henry?”
There was no answer. The poor man deserved to rest. Apparently he’d had a trying night and morning. Now that she thought of it, Vincent had looked a bit green about the gills in church. She thought it had been a trick of the light through the stained-glass window.
She put the food in the ice chest and left a quick note for Henry on the kitchen table. To be safe, Rachel would just tiptoe upstairs and make sure Henry was comfortable. Place a hand on his brow and check his temperature. Watch him sleep for a minute to make sure his breathing was even. Up the narrow stairs she went, ducking under a belligerent beam.
Oh my. Rachel tripped over her own feet in the doorway. Henry lay on the bed, his clothes on the floor by the window. He was…he was…
Absolutely, gloriously naked.
He was flat on his back, spread out for her visual delectation. His skin was as she remembered, burnished from the hot sun of Africa. Lean and muscled, his was a body that had worked hard and fought hard. There were random white slashes and divots—healed wounds acquired in the army, she supposed. And fresh bruises too that he had acquired in the supposedly safe haven of Puddling.
His poor mangled foot was not a pretty thing. Rachel knew it still gave him great pain, particularly if he was tired. She wished she could do something to help him. Her eyes swept up over his muscled legs. His manhood, partially obscured by his broad brown hand and a nest of golden-brown curls, begged for closer inspection.
Rachel bit a lip, and ventured a few more steps into the room. She might never get another chance to see a nude man again.
Oh, who was she kidding? Henry’s beauty stirred something inside her that would no longer be repressed. She might not marry the man, but why couldn’t she—
So many reasons not to go any further, either into the room or their relationship. But none of them were of interest to her at the moment.
Goodness, she was a voyeur, taking advantage of a helpless man to examine him in his well-deserved repose. Rachel held her breath as she advanced, promising herself to look but not touch.
The curtain flapped in the breeze from the open window and she nearly jumped out of her own skin. Leave now, leave now, leave now…
Henry’s eyes fluttered and opened. Rachel was as still as if she were a butterfly pinned to a board. He gave her the laziest, most infuriating grin.
“Like what you see?”
She stepped back but his hand darted out to catch hers. “Don’t go.” He was lying on the rumpled coverlet—had he made his own bed this morning?—and scooted over and threw half of it over his body.
“There. Better?”
Rachel found she could not speak. She had been caught and had no innocent excuse. From the devilish gleam in his bright blue eyes, Henry knew it, too.
“Sit down, sweetheart. You’re listing to the side.”
It was a wonder she was standing at all.
She tumbled into the warm spot he’d recently vacated. Now what? What could she possibly say to make this any less embarrassing?
It appeared she didn’t have to say anything at all. Henry gently tugged her down on top of him and proceeded to kiss her. This was nothing like the slow, dreamy kiss of a few hours ago. His was a kiss of possession. Purpose. Rachel knew without a question where it would lead.
Where she would follow.
“I dreamed of you,” he said raggedly when he broke the kiss. “Please let my dream come true.”
She’d be a fool to say yes, and she had never been one of those silly girls whose head was turned by a handsome man. But her heart, not her head, did the talking now.
“Yes. Please.”
He shut his eyes. “Thank God. I shall make this right, Rachel.”
She hoped so. This would probably be her only chance to experience sexual congress.
“Do it quickly. Rufus is outside.”
He raised a sandy eyebrow. “Quickly? I don’t think you understand what’s involved, my angel. And hang Rufus. He can wait.”
And then he showed her with agonizing slowness, brushing his lips across her eyelids, mouth, throat until she wanted that mouth everywhere. He was nimble with the buttons of her Sunday dress, deadly efficient with her corset strings even as his tongue and teeth explored each revealed inch. She was soon as naked as he, and couldn’t meet his eyes. She was restless and so hot, even without her clothing.
“Beautiful. Better than the dream. I l—um, I like you so well, Rachel. You are perfect for me.”
Had he been about to say something else? She could wish it so and make this easier. Henry said he didn’t believe in love, but she did. She knew she loved him—hadn’t wanted to, was stupid to, but couldn’t seem to help herself. There was nothing possible ahead for them but this grim spring afternoon as the skies opened and rain fell. He was going to be a marquess one day, and she was a teacher—if she could hold onto her job.
He placed her on her back, her generous breasts flopping awkwardly. Hell, all of her felt awkward. Henry sensed it and gave her a look so full of longing she began to believe what he saw. He buried his fair head on her chest and breathed deeply, then took one breast in his mouth, a hand cupping the other. Rachel thought she might just die, and be relatively happy about it. She’d never felt as good or desired in her life.
He was thorough in his kisses. Disciplined. After disarming her defenses, he eased his way down her bare skin to kiss her as he had yesterday. She opened to him like a wanton. No wonder brazen women followed him home—he was a complete genius at this.
Sensation built within her, higher and sharper, and she rose to meet it. In seconds she was crying his name, rolling with each exquisite wave.
This time he wouldn’t stop at a wicked kiss. This time it wasn’t just for her. They would be partners in bliss.
At least Rachel hoped it would be bliss. She knew a woman’s first time was often painful. But it would be worth it to return some of the joy to Henry, who so deserved it.
He was bending over her now, his expression questioning, his manhood pressing somewhat insistently into her belly. Rachel nodded.
“You don’t have to.” His voice was rough. “I can take care of myself.”
“I want to.”
“You’re sure.”
“Oh, do stop talking, Henry.” She pulled him down to taste him again. With a jolt, she realized she tasted herself as well. She should be horrified, but she wasn’t. What was happening to her?
How very, very odd this all was, but the awkwardness had passed. Rachel’s body felt alive. Free. The man that she loved was about to change her life forever.
Henry was gentle yet firm. He parted her thighs, centered himself and eased into her, watching her for any sign of refusal. She held her breath at the invasion and he stopped at once.
She squeezed his corded arms. “No. Do it.”
“I can’t cause you pain, Rachel.”
“I don’t care, I really don’t.” She lifted her hips and forced him in deeper.
“Ah.” He sounded as if he were in pain. “Oh, damn it. You feel incredible.” With a thrust, he seated himself fully inside her.
She welcomed him the only way she could, with another blistering kiss. Hands smoothing his rough skin, her own body liquid and flexing. The discomfort was almost forgotten as she responded, driving them both just a bit mad. His halting words blurred amidst his kisses, but when he said her name, she exulted.
She knew what her body expected and needed and reached for it. Her release wasn’t very long in coming, but it triggered Henry’s immediate withdrawal. She felt a hot spurt of wetness along her thigh and knew from his growl he’d found his satisfaction as well.
They lay tangled in the sheets, too stunned in wonder to speak. Henry pushed her damp fringe from her forehead and kissed her as if she were a little girl. But she was a woman now. The thought of what she had so shamelessly done brought her to the blush. Did she look different? Would people be able to tell?
“Much, much better than my dream,” he whispered. “And now, Rachel Elizabeth Everett, you will have to marry me.”