Chapter Twelve

 

A wary expression dampened the light in Hugo’s eyes and caused Lucinda to ease in a deep breath. No sense in beating around the bush. “I cannot move into the Grange.”

A chill stillness seemed to descend on the room. A slight shift of his shoulders seemed to put miles between them. “Cannot, or do not wish to?” he asked coolly.

Breathless, she recited the words she’d rehearsed in the small hours of the night. “I like my life the way it is. How would I explain my position to Sophia . . .” She gentled her words with a smile through lips so stiff, she wasn’t sure they moved at all.

He pushed up to his feet, strode to the console, and poured a glass of brandy. He took a deep swallow, staring at her as if he could read her thoughts. “There is something else troubling you. I feel it. Do you fear me?”

She jumped at the accusation in his tone, at his withering glance.

Dear God, what could she say that would satisfy him without giving too much away? “We hardly know each other. I . . . I just do not wish to rush into something I may regret later.” As half-truths went, it made perfect sense.

“You fear I will abandon you or otherwise cause you harm?”

The words were flat and indifferent, and yet she sensed that the idea of her being afraid, her lack of trust, somehow wounded him deeply.

She could not let him think her reluctance was his fault. She shook her head. “I am not afraid of you.”

His gaze raked her face. Unable to bear the bleakness in his expression, she glanced down at her hands, plucking at a loose thread on her reticule.

He crossed the room to her side, cupped her chin, and looked deep into her eyes until she was forced to lower her lashes or give away her heart. “If you do not fear me, then give me time to earn your trust.”

He brushed his mouth against hers, and delicious shivers chased down her spine.

The prospect was all too tempting. But with Arthur Dawson wandering the neighborhood and her blushing like a schoolgirl every time she laid eyes on Hugo, it was far too dangerous. The young man would notice her sooner or later. “I don’t know.” Blast it, was that the best she could do?

“Let me help you make up your mind.” He tipped her chin, angled her face, and with one hand at her nape, slanted his mouth over hers.

Just one kiss and she would go home.

The kiss deepened and went on forever. Her body tingled with desire. Just this one last blissful encounter, and then she would put an end to it, telling him that if he would not accept her word as final, she would take the only course left. She would leave Blendon. She didn’t have a choice. She could not risk discovery.

Thought, reason, and common sense floated away on the rising tide of passion until she came to her senses lying in the crook of the sofa’s arm panting with desire. Heavy-lidded, she watched him rise and lifted her arms to bring him back, but he chucked her under the chin, tossing cushions from the sofa onto the rug in front of the hearth before striding to the door and turning the key.

Her heart knocked a steady rhythm against her ribs as if seeking escape. A lie. Her insidious longings, her need to feel wanted, held her captive. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

With a lopsided smile he caught up a bottle of champagne, pressing his thumbs against the cork with a sly glance in her direction. “I hope you don’t object to a little nectar of the gods?”

How could she resist the devilish twinkle that replaced his frowns? She shook her head, a flutter of anticipation stirring low in her stomach.

The cork hit the ceiling with a bang. She squealed, then laughed.

He filled the two flutes to the brim, first with foam and then with golden liquid dancing in their crystal depths. He lowered himself to sit beside her and held the glass toward her mouth. She reached to take it.

He shook his head. “Close your eyes.”

Surprised, but game, she parted her lips to drink. Cool bubbles burst in her face in a shower of mist. Instead of the edge of the glass, a warm finger moistened her lower lip. Instinctively, she licked away the bead of sharp-tasting liquid and opened her eyes. Shards of green crystal glinted among the brown flecks in his eyes, and her heart picked up speed.

He dipped his thumb in the wine, traced the seam of her mouth with cool liquid, and then swooped down to lick it away. His tongue heated her chilled skin.

“Umm. You taste like heaven,” he murmured against her lips.

Pleasure hummed along her veins as if the bubbles from the champagne had somehow found their way into her blood and now sought an escape. Her eyelids drooped, weighted by desire. She let the sensation sweep her along.

When he lifted his head to drink from the glass, she felt a brief sense of loss and then smiled a welcome as he leaned forward to claim her mouth.

A froth of bubbles drizzled from his mouth into hers. Shocked and aroused by the strange sensation, she swallowed them down. Emboldened, she dove her cool tongue into the wine-flavored hot cavity of his mouth. Delicious.

A groan vibrated his chest.

She pushed at his shoulder, laughing as she came up for air. “Where on earth did you learn such wickedness?”

He lowered his lashes, and his lips curved in a modest smile. “A soldier gets a broad education.”

“I can see it now. Wellington’s manual on bedroom strategy.” She hiccupped. Good lord. Was she foxed on one sip of champagne? Or did the heady wine of lust pounding in her veins make her act like a giddy girl? She pressed her fingers to her lips. “Excuse me.”

“There is more to come,” he said with a roguish smile, “but you have to sit up.”

Intrigued, she did as he bid. In a smooth motion, he rose and picked her up. She expected him to head upstairs to his chamber and threw her arms around his neck, inhaling his manly scent, kissing his jaw, nibbling his ear, and feeling the rasp of his shadow of beard against her cheek.

He stopped at the rug in front of the hearth and lowered himself on one knee. Though he tried to hide it, she felt him wince.

“Your leg,” she cried out.

He grimaced. “A twinge. Nothing more.”

“Perhaps we should not—”

“Oh, yes, we should.” His voice sounded rough, yet held laughter. He set her down beside the cushion and with swift tugs unlaced her gown. She helped him strip it over her head. Her stays and chemise swiftly followed.

He ran his hands over her shoulders and down her back, following the curve of her hip with long slow strokes that made her purr like a cat.

In only her stockings and shoes, she felt strangely naughty and dreadfully vulnerable.

“What about you?” she whispered. “Are you going to remain clothed?”

Like Denbigh.

The repulsive recollection chilled her to the bone. She stiffened. He must have seen it and interpreted it as fear, because he patted her shoulder as he might a skittish horse. “Easy,” he whispered. He undid the buttons of his shirt. Muscles stretching and rippling, he removed his jacket and then divested himself of shirt, shoes, and breeches.

In fascination she raised herself on an elbow to watch. She ran her fingertips across the warm flesh of hard flank and skimmed the bandage around the breadth of his injured thigh. The man was gorgeous.

He turned his head to look at her with a cocky smile and smoldering eyes.

Her core fluttered, her body clenched in a shiver of delight. She rolled on her side as he stretched out beside her, stroking the sculpted muscles of his beautiful chest and shoulders. When he leaned over to snatch up a wineglass from the hearth, her gaze drifted over the ridged stomach to his rampant cock, the proud proclamation of his virility.

The evidence of his desire. For her. Wild and wicked, female power surged in her veins.

“Feeling more comfortable?” he murmured, taking note of the direction of her gaze.

She cast him a sultry glance from beneath her lashes and nodded.

It provoked an answering grin of appreciation. He held the glass to her lips, and she took a small sip at his hand. A tart burst of bubbles filled her mouth. He bent his head to kiss her cheek. His lips felt tender.

The room blurred as if a fog had rolled in through the window. How could she have such bad fortune all tangled with so much good luck?

“Lie down for me, sweet,” he whispered. “On your stomach. I’m not done with you yet.”

Pinpricks of anticipation ran down her spine and yet she hesitated, suddenly shy and unsure.

“Trust me, Lucinda.”

The plea in his tone made her heart twinge. To show fear would hurt him. She did as he bid, her cheek pressed into the velvet cushion, her gaze fixed on his intent expression.

“Close your eyes,” he commanded, albeit gently.

She let her eyelids drift closed. The heartbeat in her chest seemed to thunder. Blood rushed in her ears as she listened for movement, alert to his intentions. Her back muscles tensed against her will.

A splash of cold hit her spine. She gasped. A second later his hot tongue swept it away. She shivered. Her insides convulsed. “W-what are you doing?”

“Patience,” he murmured, drizzling more cold liquid onto the small of her back, only to suckle it up in an instant.

Dear heaven, her insides were molten.

He drew circles with a moist fingertip at the back of her knees. As they dried, shivers ran across her thighs and buttocks. He blew on the sensitive spot, and shivers turned to heat. He continued to tease and torture her skin. Heat, cold, moist, dry until the tingles of electricity sparking through her veins had her reaching for fulfillment.

Pleasure, want, desire, he gave them to her as a gift of mouth and tongue and skillful fingers. She writhed and wriggled and gasped beneath one searing shock after another.

She wanted it to go on forever and wanted to beg him to end it. She rolled on her back, tugging on his shoulders. She might as well have tried to pull a mountain off its base. A supremely self-satisfied mountain, she saw from his face as he sipped from the flute and then dipped his head to suckle her breast.

Cold tightened her nipple. Pleasurable agony shot to her core. It tightened and clenched. She clawed his back, moaned her delight . . . and shattered.

Pulsing waves of gentle pleasure rippled through her body, followed by blissful heat. Her heart thundered. Breathless, mindless, she stared up at her tormentor.

A sensuous smile slowly curved his lips. His eyelids at half-mast, he looked boyishly proud and harshly handsome in the dim candlelight.

“I love the fire you hide beneath your prim and proper gown,” he said. “Very erotic.”

The woman in her purred with delight.

“And you?” she managed to gasp, glancing down at his still turgid shaft. “Will you not take your pleasure?”

“Oh, yes, my darling.” He rocked his hips against her thigh. The head of his cock, hot against her sensitive flesh, swelled and darkened to deep royal purple. He reached for his jacket and pulled forth a crystalline envelope.

A condom. She forestalled him with a touch. “My turn.”

A look of puzzlement and dawning hope crossed his face as, still staring into his eyes, she plucked the champagne glass from his hand and took a sip.

She ducked her head and, gripping his rod lightly, kissed the engorged and gleaming tip. He groaned.

The liquid gushed down his shaft and over her hand in a cold rush. It disappeared into the dark thatch of curls at his groin. He drew in a harsh breath as she followed its trail with her tongue, sipping and licking, tasting the essence of him amid the wine. His hands convulsed in her hair.

Her pulse picked up speed. Would he reject her clumsy attempt?

He moaned. “God’s bones. Where did you learn such a trick?” He sounded delighted.

She glanced up with a sultry look. “I wasn’t sure it would please you . . .”

He swooped in for a swift kiss. “Woman, you drive me mad. Each time I see you, I want to put my hands on you. I inhale your perfume and can only think about the feel of your body against mine.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “When I hear your voice I get so hard, I can’t think of anything but being inside you.”

She glanced down at his rampant cock with a naughty smile. “So I see.”

He crushed her against his chest and angled her head to match his lips against hers, filling her mouth with his tongue and the empty places in her heart with the beating of his. She wanted to cry for the joy of it.

But he could never be hers. Not really. It was wrong not to tell him the truth, the nagging voice of conscience reminded. She thrust it aside. This was lust. Nothing more. No hearts, no souls, just the delight of male and female mating, something she would never have known without this man. She owed him this in return.

“Now,” he said. “I have to be inside you now.”

He sounded as desperate as she felt. “Yes. Now.”

He quickly fitted the condom. With a gentle smile, she brushed his shaking fingers aside and tied the bow. She barely made it fast before he pressed her back against the cushion and thrust into her with a deep sigh.

The muscles of her inner passage tightened around the invasion. He held still, giving her time to adjust, to relax, to feel the slide of his heat against her slick inner flesh. With strong fingers pressing into her thighs, he lifted her hips, tilting her, opening her to his deeper penetration.

He drove home, to the hilt, his gaze on her face.

The bliss in his expression, the taut grimace on his lips filled her heart with tenderness. She clenched her legs around his hips and felt his muscles hard against her inner thighs. She caressed his shoulders, opening to his next thrust with an encouraging tilt of her hips.

“Dear God, you make me come too fast,” he bit out.

“Really?” she asked, adjusting again.

“Little witch.” He withdrew and pressed in and up.

A wild burst of pleasure ripped through her. She shivered with ecstasy, hovering on the brink of another shattering release.

Eyes glazed in passion, he drove deeper, his neck corded, his breath exhaling in a groan with each pounding stroke. His buttocks clenched beneath her wandering hands.

Again the subtle shift of his hips, the shivering abrasion and the wild burst of pleasure. Her inner muscles squeezed his shaft, clenching so tight that the dam inside her broke.

His rumbling groan of release joined her cry of pleasure and she flew apart, aware only of the slowing pulse of hips and cock as he prolonged their shuddering climax.

For a long moment, head lowered, eyes closed, he hung above her, as if he had lost all of his strength.

Somehow she managed to lift her mouth to his, to brush his lips with a kiss.

His eyelids lifted. He returned the kiss with a sweetness that pulled at her heart and then rolled onto his side, drawing her into the circle of his arms, pressing her cheek against his rapidly rising and falling chest. To the sound of his heavy breathing, she drifted into a dreamless and bliss-filled doze.

The clock on the mantel struck ten. She jerked awake. “Is it really that late?”

His glance held a touch of sly temptation. “If you moved in with me, you would not have to rush away. We could play all night.”

The temptation tore at her heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head and smiled. “You have no need to apologize. Just think about it for a day or so.”

“After the fête,” she said, watching his face. “Until it is over, I cannot think of anything else.”

His expression tightened, but he nodded. “If that will help you decide in my favor, then I agree.”

“Manipulator.”

“Procrastinator.”

She laughed. Freely, openly, laughed at his nonsense. The way she’d laughed at home with her family. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. Foolish and wonderful.

They dressed in companionable silence, helping each other, giggling, becoming a little breathless and a lot aroused, when they should be serious.

“I will ring for Trent to take you home.”

While they waited, he poured himself a glass of brandy and stood staring out the window.

“I wish you would not drink that stuff,” she said.

His expression said she’d surprised him, before it turned politely blank.

“My husband became violent in his cups.”

He put the glass down on the nearest table as if it were hot. “I’m sorry. I wish you had said so before. I can easily do without.”

Denbigh had said much the same thing after the accident with the cigar. He’d forgotten it was in his mouth, he had said, but there had been a mean glitter in his eyes. His sobriety had lasted less than a week.

“I don’t expect you to change for me.” Would not hope.

He came to her then, eyes full of tenderness. “There you go again, all stiff like the bristles of a hairbrush.”

The image made her laugh. He folded her in a warm embrace and kissed her brow, then her nose, then her lips. The heat flared all over again. Only the sound of the carriage outside forced them apart.

“Damn, Trent,” he said.

“No,” she said softly, trailing her fingertips along his jaw. “I really need to go home.”

“When will I see you again?”

“After the fête. When all of the fuss has died down.”

He gazed at the ceiling as if seeking strength from on high. “A week?”

She opened her mouth to suggest they not meet at all. He must have guessed her intent, for he touched his finger to her sensitive lips. “Your wish is my command.”

In that moment, she realized he would never accept anything but yes as an answer. If her final decision was no, she would have no choice but to leave Blendon and never see him again. The prospect left her entirely too empty, her heart ripped in two.

 

• • •

 

The sun kissed the Dingly Dell with gold. Good God. Hugo hadn’t recalled his childhood name for this spot in years. All across the emerald sward, sweating farm laborers in shirtsleeves heaved on guy ropes, striped awnings on tent poles snapped in the breeze, and pennants fluttered. In two hours the Blendon village fête would be under way.

The happy, excited faces of the men and women who lived on his estate surrounded him. Lucinda was right. People needed a bit of fun to brighten their hard and ofttimes dreary existence.

Thinking of Lucinda, he spotted her statuesque figure towering over the grim-faced Mrs. Peddle among a group of ladies at the archery target. In her somber gray gown with its starched white collar, she looked drab, dowdy, nothing like the passionate woman he knew resided beneath the cool reserve. He wanted to see her in jewel tones and silk, showing off that wonderful body, to see roses in her hair as well as her cheeks. He wanted to show her off.

A slight lowering of her lashes each time his gaze rested on her signaled her awareness of his regard. A secret message of desire and longing. It pleased him enormously.

After their last meeting, he’d arrived at a conclusion. It was time to bring the full force of the Wanstead charm onto the battlefield. If it had won his father the most sought-after beauty after the Gunning sisters, there was no reason why it would not win him the elusive Mrs. Graham.

This time her defensive line would not stand against his powers of persuasion. He’d storm her battlements one by one until she raised a white flag. Swinging his walking cane, he strolled to join her and the vicar and the other ladies of the committee.

“Not there,” Mrs. Trip called out. “Can’t you see that the sun will be right in the contestants’ eyes?”

The bovine-looking lad moved the target three feet to the right.

Lucinda shook her head. “It can’t go there. If they miss, the arrows might hit the children on the merry-go-round.”

“Mrs. Graham is right,” Hugo said.

All four ladies turned to stare.

Lucinda shot him one of those what-on-earth-are-you-doing-here looks females seemed to practice from birth, but then she remembered they were in company and sketched a curtsey. Damn, he hated the formality of it all. He’d much rather pull her close and kiss her generous mouth until she melted.

“Good day, ladies,” he said.

“Good day, my lord,” they chirped back at him.

“Why not put the target over there in the corner? Out of the way of everybody,” he said.

“I thought it should be front and center to draw a much better crowd, my lord,” Mrs. Trip said.

“Closer to the beer garden is best,” Mrs. Peddle stated. “Good for trade.”

“I agree with his lordship,” Miss Crotchet said, then turned bright red.

“So do I.” Lucinda suddenly looked a whole lot less frazzled. “There will be more room for people to gather and watch, and the sun will be behind the contestants.”

Mrs. Trip pressed her lips together. “Well, if you think so, Mrs. Graham, then that’s what we’ll do.” She raised her voice. “Fred. Pick that up and bring it along. We’re taking it over there.”

The long-suffering Fred wrestled the tar-dowsed target into his brawny arms and followed in Mrs. Trip’s authoritative wake, wisps of straw scattering on the grass behind his every step.

“If he is not careful, there will be nothing left of that target,” Lucinda observed.

Hugo smothered a laugh. “I am sure that will be the last time he has to move it.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Miss Crotchet stared at them, her eyes popping open. “Oh, please do excuse me. I must see about the tables for the baking. Squire Dawson’s men are sure to set them up in the full sun unless someone is there to put them straight.”

“Aye,” said Mrs. Peddle, her narrowed eyes fixed on the other side of the glade. “And if I don’t keep an eye out for Peddle, he’ll be giving away free samples to them as is helping.”

Lucinda’s eyes twinkled. “That would never do.”

“I will treat all the helpers to one pint of ale, Mrs. Peddle,” Hugo said. “Send the bill to Mr. Brown.”

Mrs. Peddle’s face lightened. “That’s right gentlemanly of you, my lord. Right gentlemanly, indeed. Excuse me while I go and tell that fool Peddle.”

“Of course.” Hugo gave her a nod.

Lucinda watched her stomp off and then turned her adorable face up to Hugo. A frown creased the space between her eyebrows. He found himself wanting to kiss it away.

“Did you do that on purpose?” she asked.

“Do what?” he said, avoiding her gaze by knocking the head off a daisy with the tip of his cane.

“Get rid of them.”

“Mrs. Graham, what can you mean?”

“I thought you were going to help set up the rope pull and grease the pig.”

“Ah. Well, when I told Trent about the plans, he volunteered to lend a hand. I need your opinion on another matter.”

She glanced around.

The vicar, assisting Miss Dawson to tether her pony to the fence, caught Lucinda’s eye and waved. Far too familiar, the Reverend Postlethwaite, Hugo decided.

“I think the vicar needs my help,” Lucinda said.

“You can help him in a moment.”

“I really can’t think what else is needed. Everything we planned is in place and ready.”

“There is something no one thought of.”

She must have caught something in his voice, because she stopped looking around and stared at him. Yes. Now he had her full attention.

“What is it?”

“Come with me and you will see.”

He wanted to take her hand. No. He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders and stake his claim in front of the world. Instead, he satisfied himself with a brief guiding touch on the small of her back. “This way.”

He gestured to the marquee set up at right angles to the Peddles’ stand.

Her frown deepened. “The trestles are all set up for supper.”

“Yes.” He lifted the flap and bowed. “Step inside and you will see what you missed.”

The cool smell of canvas and crushed grass filled the cavernous space. Filtered light leaked through the canvas walls. As he’d instructed Brown yesterday, at one end of the tent the grass had been covered in sheets of wood nailed together in front of a raised dais.

Lucinda strolled to the center of the board floor and stared at the music stands and chairs on the platform. She twirled around, her face alight. “I do not believe it.”

He tried to look innocent and failed miserably. His mouth insisted on grinning. “What do you not believe?”

“It is for dancing.”

“After supper. The squire will have his ball, and the villagers shall have theirs.”

She flew back to his side. “It will be the highlight of the evening. They will be so happy. Thank you.” She leaned forward.

She aimed the kiss at his cheek, but he fielded it with his lips and caught her close.

For a moment, they clung together, her hands on his shoulders, his at her waist, like an old married couple, instantly in tune.

She pulled away. “Oh, goodness.” She smoothed her gown, touched her hair, and glanced over her shoulder. “We really shouldn’t. Someone might see.”

And that was her last bastion. He had a plan for that, too.

“The musicians will arrive at suppertime.”

A throat cleared outside the tent.

Lucinda retreated a step and stared at the wooden boards as if inspecting their joints.

Trent entered, a knowing smirk on his face.

Hugo wanted to smash the smirk into smithereens. “Yes.”

“The squire is looking for you, my lord.”

The tension leached from his shoulders. He should have known that Trent would watch his back. “Is he, indeed?”

“Yes, my lord. He was over by the stalls a moment ago, but he is headed this way.”

“Thank you, Trent.” He turned to Lucinda with a rueful smile. He couldn’t remember smiles coming so easily. “So, Mrs. Graham, I assume this meets with your approval?”

Her lips were rosy and her cheeks flying flags of color. She looked delicious. Like a woman well kissed. A deep satisfaction settled in the pit of his stomach. Oh, yes. He had a very nice plan for later.

“I think it is excellent, my lord,” she said.

The twinkle in Trent’s eyes said he didn’t buy the inspection one little bit. He grinned and ducked out of the tent.

“Shall we, Mrs. Graham?” Hugo held back the tent flap.

“Yes, my lord.” She dipped beneath his arm and out into the sunshine.

Blinded by the glare, Hugo blinked. Ahead of him, Lucinda seemed to turn to stone. Then Hugo saw reason for her consternation. Not only was the squire bearing down on them, but the whole Dawson family was tramping across the grass in their direction.

“By thunder, Wanstead,” the squire roared. “This is like old times.”

“Really, Henry,” his wife said. “There is no need to shout. Wanstead isn’t deaf.”

Behind his parents, Arthur stuck out his tongue, while the diminutive Catherine smiled serenely.

“And there,” Lucinda said, pointing in the opposite direction, “is Annie with Sophia. I really need to speak to her. Please excuse me, my lord.”

He couldn’t actually say no, dammit.

As Hugo made his bows and shook hands with the squire, he was aware of Arthur’s gaze following Lucinda’s stately progress across the field.

“Who is she?” Arthur asked when Hugo squeezed his hand.

“Who?” Hugo asked, the back of his neck bristling.

“The woman you had tucked away in the tent.”

“We were inspecting the tent,” Hugo said. “That is Mrs. Graham.”

“She is a treasure. She has done most of the organizing,” Catherine said.

Arthur glanced over to where Lucinda chatted with her housekeeper. “Have I met her somewhere before?” He frowned and shook his head. “Striking woman, and a snug armful for a man of your size.” He cast a sly look at Hugo.

Hugo wanted to hit him. But what he really wanted was to drag Lucinda back into the cool dark of the tent and keep her hidden, like a dragon protecting his treasure. He kept his fists firmly at his side, but God help him, his strategy for tonight had to work or he’d find himself demented and baying at the moon.

“Never mind that.” Mrs. Dawson waved her sunshade to encompass the whole of the field. “Hugo, will it all be ready in time? I have guests from London expecting to spend a few hours here this afternoon before the ball.”

“Mama,” Catherine said, “it is quite obvious everything is in order. Is it not, Hugo?”

Dragging his gaze from Lucinda, Hugo glanced down into her vivacious expression. Good for Catherine. Standing up to her mother at last. “Yes. I am quite sure everything will be fine.”