Chapter 17

This night’s after-dinner gathering was far more sedate than the previous evening’s had been. Part of the reason was that the vicar and his wife were present, so a noisy game of commerce seemed vaguely unsuitable. And part of the reason was the weather. The wind whistled and moaned, rattling the shutters and blowing occasional gusts of smoke into the room from the fireplace. This seemed to subdue the spirits of everyone save Lilah. She actually felt calmer and more cheerful than she had earlier. The weather matched her mood, making it seem as if Mother Nature herself sympathized with Lilah’s plight. She felt less necessity to vent her feelings while the storm expressed them for her.

Wexbridge Abbey, like many old buildings, was exceedingly drafty. On a night such as this, inexplicable breezes blew and eddied in the rooms. This was uncomfortable for everyone, but torture for Miss Pickens. The unfortunate woman believed in spirits. Despite her best efforts to hide it, she grew more and more skittish as the wind worsened. Several times during the course of the evening she whirled fearfully round, clapping one hand to her neck as if feeling ghostly breath upon her. Shortly after the clock chimed eleven, the candle on the table beside her suddenly went out. Miss Pickens gave a terrified gasp, her hand clutching wildly at her throat.

“Tis the wind,” said Lilah soothingly. “Naught but the wind.”

“Oh! Of course. So silly of me,” said Miss Pickens, trying to laugh. “There is no earthly reason for a Christian woman to be fearful on a night like this, is there?” She glanced nervously at the vicar.

He gave her a thin, disapproving smile. “None whatsoever,” he said repressively. “I am always a little astonished at the power of a mere rainstorm to overset the nerves of suggestible persons. We ought to know better, oughtn’t we? We are not children.”

Miss Pickens flushed to the roots of her hair, too ashamed to reply. Lilah’s eyes sparkled with anger as she lifted her chin at the clergyman. “People of all ages dislike storms,” she said coolly. “I am not overfond of them myself.”

Drake was sitting across the room, studiously avoiding contact with Lilah. But she saw a flash of approval in his eyes and a grim smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I don’t like them, either,” he said shortly. “Never have.”

Lilah’s heart warmed. It was good of him to champion Miss Pickens. She knew perfectly well that weather was a matter of complete indifference to him; in the short time she had known him, she had seen him out in weather of all sorts. His remark must be motivated by pure kindness.

Beside her, Miss Pickens breathed more easily and her embarrassed flush faded. She slipped a grateful arm beneath Lilah’s and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Perhaps, as I am not entirely myself this evening, I should go early to bed.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Lilah stoutly. She knew Miss Pickens must dread going down the dark and drafty passages to her bedchamber alone. She also knew that her old friend would be heartily embarrassed to let a servant see her to her room, since she would hate for a stranger to witness her fear.

Polly looked up. “Miss Pickens need not stay if she doesn’t feel up to it. But, Lilah dear, must we lose you so early?”

“I will return,” Lilah assured her, smiling. “But if I do not see Miss Pickens safely to her door, I will spend the rest of the evening fretting about her.”

Drake rose lazily out of his chair. “I’ll escort you.” Lilah must have looked as startled as she felt, for he added, “To see you safely back to the drawing room, Miss Chadwick.”

“Oh,” said Lilah, nonplussed. She could hardly argue with him in front of the vicar and everyone, but it seemed strange that he would offer his escort. He had been avoiding her ever since their brief argument at the picnic spot. “Very well,” she said at last, not wishing to appear ungracious. She gestured to the table beside him. “You might bring that lamp.”

They formed a well-lit group as they walked toward Miss Pickens’s bed chamber; Drake carried the lamp and the women each held a candle. The strong light, and being flanked by two supporters, seemed to ease Miss Pickens’s jumpiness. “Thank you,” she said in a low, embarrassed voice. “I know I should not be afraid of storms, but I cannot seem to help it. It was on a night like this that I saw—” She broke off with a shudder. “Well! I had better not think of that experience. I shan’t sleep a wink as it is.”

Drake raised an eyebrow. “What! Did you see a ghost?”

Miss Pickens gulped and nodded. “I was a mere child,” she said faintly, “but I never shall forget it. A white shade, floating across the lawn. Horrible!”

Drake’s eyes met Lilah’s over Miss Pickens’s head. She looked a warning at him, and he quelled his amusement. Instead, he looked down at the governess on his arm and said bracingly, “If I saw something floating across the lawn tonight, I’d think someone’s laundry had blown off the clothesline. A nightshirt, or a pillowslip, or something of that sort. But that’s the advantage of seeing through an adult’s eyes. Daresay a child wouldn’t even think of that explanation.”

Doubt and surprise flitted across Miss Pickens’s features. It was clear that that explanation of what she had witnessed had not occurred to her—then, or at any time since. “Gracious!” she murmured, looking dazed. “Do you suppose…no, no. There was something indescribably eerie about what I saw.” She shuddered again. “I have been afraid of ghosts ever since.”

Drake assumed a philosophical air. “Well, if you see any shades tonight, Miss Pickens, you may send ‘em along to me. I’m three doors down the hall from you. They are welcome to float across the lawn, or rattle my shutters, or whatever takes their fancy. Won’t bother me a bit.”

Miss Pickens actually smiled at this. “It does sound foolish, doesn’t it? To be afraid of something that merely floats across a lawn.”

Drake’s eyes crinkled slightly as he looked at her. “Miss Pickens,” he said solemnly, “I wouldn’t dream of calling you foolish.”

They had reached the door to her bed chamber. Drake pulled it open and, with Miss Pickens’s permission, strolled across the small, cold room and checked the window latches. Pooh-poohing her suggestion that they ring for a servant, Drake kindled the fire for her with his own hands, lit the small lamp at the side of her bed, placed her candle on the mantelpiece to give her an additional source of light, and bowed. “All’s safe,” he promised her.

Miss Pickens was pink with embarrassment and gratification. “Oh, my lord, you are too good,” she stammered.

“Nonsense,” he said, seeming surprised. “It was my pleasure.”

Lilah had watched the scene from the open doorway, leaning against the door jamb and smiling in spite of herself. Drake seemed utterly unaware that it was unusual for a man of his rank to wait on a governess. There was a task to be done and he did it, soothing Miss Pickens’s alarms and seeing to her comfort with no more fuss than if she were a cherished aunt.

She was still puzzling over why she found this quality so endearing when she looked up to see that the moment was over; Miss Pickens was bidding them goodnight and Drake now stood beside her, closing the door. Lilah straightened hurriedly. She was about to be alone with Drake, and her wits immediately began to scatter. She swallowed hard, then, as the door before her shut tight, she sneaked a peek at his face.

Drake had one hand on the doorknob while the other held the lamp high, its circle of mellow light keeping the darkness of the passage at bay. His eyes glinted down at her. Their expression made her heart race with excitement—and an overpowering sense of danger. “I hope,” he said softly, “that you are in no hurry to return to the drawing room.”

At his words, Lilah’s hand shook and her candle suddenly jumped and wavered. Drake took it from her, blew it out, and set it on the low table beside Miss Pickens’s door. Lilah knew what was coming. She knew it in her bones. She made one last, feeble attempt to forestall the inevitable.

“I thought you had decided to avoid being alone with me,” she said. Her voice came out suspiciously weak and quavery.

His eyes met hers squarely. “I changed my mind.”

And then, as she had hoped—as she had feared—he pulled her roughly to him with his free hand and kissed her, his arm encircling her waist, holding her fast. Holding her up, for surely she would have sunk to the floor otherwise; her knees seemed to melt like so much sealing wax. All of her, all of her was melting. She moaned and sagged against him, limp and delirious, while he kissed her as if he had all night to do it, all night to kiss her senseless.

But it wouldn’t take him all night to kiss her senseless. She had obviously lost her mind already.

Helpless tears spilled down her cheeks. When he tasted salt he groaned and murmured, “Lilah. Lilah, don’t cry. Don’t cry, sweeting.” He kissed the tear-tracks with a gentleness she had not glimpsed in him before. Then he pulled her, one-armed, down the passage to a tiny, windowed alcove. The rain drummed against the mullioned windows, muffling their conversation from any listening ears. Drake set the lamp on the window bench and took Lilah silently into his arms.

She leaned her cheek against his lapel and gave a loud sniff, hugging him tightly. “Drake,” she said dolefully, “we are truly in the suds.”

His chuckle rumbled in her ear. “That we are,” he agreed.

Frustrated, she beat her fist against his chest. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked indignantly. “I could bear it until you kissed me.”

“I had to kiss you,” he said tensely. “For one thing, I had to make sure I wasn’t imagining this. But I wasn’t. It’s real.” He took her by the shoulders and held her away from him. His expression was grim. “I kissed Eugenia yesterday. It felt like kissing my sister.”

“Oh, dear,” said Lilah faintly. “You mean—you had never kissed her before?”

“No. I wish I had thought of that before I proposed marriage to her.” Drake looked disgusted. “Then, to make matters worse, she sat me down this afternoon and filled my ears full of the most maudlin pap I ever heard. Mewling about her marital duties and all that, as if she expected me to torture her in the marriage bed. She intends to submit to me, for God’s sake!” He shuddered. “She intends to do her duty.”

Lilah blinked at him. “But—isn’t that what you want? A submissive wife?”

“Hell and the devil confound it—no!” He let go of her and thrust his hands through his hair. It was the first time she’d seen him use both hands. The gesture did twice as much damage as usual. Adorable, thought Lilah, besotted. But Drake was talking again, pacing back and forth with an earnest expression of horror that made her want to laugh out loud.

“I wish you could have heard her,” he exclaimed. “Fairly made my blood run cold. She means to obey me in all things. Never set up her will in opposition to mine. I’m to be the master, the head of the house, and she’s to be the heart, whatever that means. Of all the mealy-mouthed, colorless, boring, timid—”

“Drake,” she interrupted, breaking into laughter. “That is exactly what you said you wanted. You are describing the very qualities you told me you admired in a woman. The qualities Eugenia has, and I lack.”

He halted in mid-stride, then abruptly pulled her against him again. The fierce, possessive gesture took her breath away. “And what of the qualities you have, and Eugenia lacks?” he demanded. He brought his face within inches of hers, his eyes glowing like twin pools of fire. She stared into them and felt that odd lassitude coming over her again, turning her dizzy. “Tell me,” he whispered. His lips trailed over her cheek. Oh, heaven. “Are you submitting to me, Lilah? Is what you feel now—obedience?”

She shivered. “No,” she admitted weakly. “I’d have to say it was… something else.”

“And what I feel sure as check isn’t mastery,” he growled. “I never felt less in control in my life.”

He took her lips again, with an unmistakable hunger that went straight to Lilah’s heart. I cannot have this man, she thought, aching with loss. He is not for me. “Stop,” she said at last. Her voice was faint and lacked conviction, but at least she got the words out. “Please stop, Drake.”

He did stop kissing her, but rested his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged. “You’ve ruined my life,” he groaned. “I had everything planned.”

“So did I,” said Lilah mournfully.

“Now I don’t want any of it. Not Eugenia, nor a life of peace and order, nor a perfect, dutiful wife.” His hands came up and cradled her cheeks, framing her face, and he pulled his head back to look at her. “I want you, Lilah,” he said hoarsely. His eyes studied her features as if memorizing them, lingering on each curve and plane of her face. “I want imperfect, amazing, maddening you. I want a life of chaos and laughter and endless arguments.” His voice lowered and roughened. “And I don’t want submission in my bed. I want passion.”

His words made her tremble. Passion. How could any woman share Drake’s bed and not feel passion? His eyes darkened as he saw her expression change, as he felt the quiver go through her. She could hide nothing from him. His fingertips traced her cheekbones, lightly, then his hands ran back and tangled in her hair. “Lilah,” he whispered. The need in his voice made her name sound like prayer. And then his mouth came down on hers, crushing her lips, demanding the response that her eyes had promised him.

She gave it willingly.

Lilah felt her hair come loose and tumble down her back. She registered a moment’s fleeting regret that she could not, now, return to the drawing room—and then she didn’t care anymore. Her arms snaked around Drake’s neck and pulled him closer. She kissed him with a ferocity that matched his, arching her back, reaching up on tiptoe, anything, anything to connect with him.

She could feel the heat of his hands through the thin silk of her gown. They slid down her back, spanned her waist. So warm. So strong. They moved lower, cupping her behind, and she gave a little gasp of mingled shock and desire. Then, with a deep groan of longing, Drake bent and slid one arm beneath her thighs, lifting her. Lilah pulled her face back, startled. “Drake—what—”

“Sit with me,” he muttered thickly. He carried her to the window bench. The storm still beat against the windowpanes and the cold seeping through the glass made Lilah shiver. Drake leaned back against the wall and pulled her across his lap, cradling her. “I’ll keep you warm,” he whispered.

She leaned against him, relishing the feel of him. The strength of him. He was a solid wall of muscle, warm but unyielding. She felt, idiotically, that nothing bad could happen to her in the haven of Drake’s arms—although she knew perfectly well that this was the most dangerous place she could possibly be.

The lamp had been set on the other end of the bench. Drake played with her hair, running his fingers through it and watching it shimmer in the lamplight. The infatuated expression on his face as he watched the light play on her hair made her smile, but her smile quickly faded. She was in a terrible fix, she thought, and had little to smile about.

Drake’s gaze lifted from her hair to her face. Heat still burned in the amber depths of his eyes. “Tell me. How many men have you kissed?”

“Four,” she said demurely. Charlie Brewer hardly counted, since she had been nine years old at the time and had kissed him on a dare, but Drake didn’t need to know that.

He looked taken aback. “Four?”

She smiled, tracing the outline of his lips with her finger. “Does that seem too many, or too few?” she asked him teasingly.

He scowled. “Too many.”

She looked down her nose at him, one eyebrow raised. “And how many women have you kissed, pray tell?”

His lips twitched. “More than four,” he said grudgingly.

“Aha! I thought so.”

But then his eyes searched hers, deadly serious. “Was it ever like this?”

Her arch smile faded. “No,” she whispered. “Never.”

His warm hands framed her face again. “Nor for me,” he murmured. His lips brushed against hers with infinite tenderness. “No matter how I kiss you,” he whispered against her mouth, “or how many times I kiss you, I cannot get enough.”

His words sent a rush of heat through her. Oh, she was undone.

He held her with one arm, tipping her slantwise as he kissed her and she lay back across his arm, pliant. Resistless. The skimpy sleeve of her evening gown bared her upper arm; his hands now moved to caress the tender flesh, sliding intimately across her slender limb, encircling it. It was a liberty no man had ever dared to take. Lilah almost swooned at the exquisite sensation; his fingers were so warm against her cool skin, his touch was so delicious.

He ran his hand up over her shoulder and swept his palm down, following the line of satin piping across the low-cut bodice, warming her delicate skin. And then, as gentle as a whisper, he fanned his fingers out and covered her breast with his hand. The heat of his palm through the silk made her gasp; she arched her back instinctively, trembling and mindless. No man had touched her like this before. Not her body, nor her soul.

She opened her eyes and saw Drake’s face, his powerful, fierce, beloved face, hovering over hers. His eyes were fixed on her body, watching his own hand as he caressed her. His expression made her shake with need; seeing his desire fueled her own. She watched his eyes as they traveled up her throat and met her gaze. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “I have never wanted anything as much as I want you.” But he stilled his hand and tore his gaze from hers, tilting his chin to force his focus at the ceiling, breathing deeply. He then lifted his hand, carefully, so carefully, and placed it chastely at her waist. “This is wrong,” he said, his voice rasping with the effort it cost him. “But I swear to you, I will make it right.”

His words seemed to rip at her heart. “Drake,” she said miserably, “I—”

“Ssh. Hush, sweeting,” he crooned, his arms tightening around her. “We’ll save our tears for later.” And he kissed her again, compelling her silence. She surrendered without a fight. It seemed, to her, the only thing to do. Yes. She would save her tears for later. For now there was Drake, and the rain, and the lamplight.