CHAPTER NINE
“Strict adherence to convention is more apt to make one tedious than virtuous, my dear.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon said lady’s lament about daughters with unusual preoccupations.
Occasionally—and with greater frequency of late—Maureen longed to ignore the rules. Now, for example, when her arm ached abominably from beating eggs into a froth to leaven her orange cakes. She resented the need to disguise her fondness for cookery, waiting until the most ungodly hours to cook in secret without help from the maids. An earl’s daughter simply did not work in the kitchens, whisking eggs and kneading dough and measuring out cinnamon and sugar for her version of Chelsea buns.
The shame of doing something useful! She snorted her derision.
Clutching the crockery bowl to her to her chest, she swiped at her forehead with her wrist and eyed the light-yellow froth she’d produced, satisfied with the result.
The rules were silly, much like the admonitions against kissing gentlemen. How was one to decide whether to marry a man? One might judge his riding skill or his intelligence on matters botanical from chaperoned outings. But heaven forefend one should be curious about whether kissing him would produce a nauseous reaction. She would only be kissing him for the rest of her life, after all.
She sighed. The rules were rubbish. This was not in doubt.
With gentle strokes, she folded the eggs into her creamed sugar and butter, taking care not to deflate the hard-won air bubbles. Then, she added the flour bit by bit, wondering at the arbitrary nature of societal strictures. Why should Mrs. Dunn, their beloved cook, be permitted to instruct her employer’s curious daughter in the finer points of braised beef, but only in secret? What made Maureen so bloody different? Furthermore, she thought while adding a dash of nutmeg and a dram of orange-infused brandy, what made “bloody” such a forbidden word for ladies? She did not know. No one did. No one questioned these things. They obeyed the rules because the rules had been set and everyone followed them.
Sighing, she set her bowl on the work table and wiped her hands on her apron. Fetching the small cake tins she had buttered earlier, she arranged them in neat rows upon a sheet and began pouring the batter.
Outside, the steady patter of rain had formed a curtain of sound. By the time she placed the tins in the oven and stoked the coals sufficiently, the wind had joined the symphony, whistling and thrashing against the high windows. She stood with her hands on her hips, glancing about the dark periphery beyond the glow of her lamp. Berne House protested the sudden gale with creaks and groans. She fought a chill as she gathered up the dishes for cleaning, carrying her stack into the scullery.
The wind grew stronger, rattling the door at the opposite end, which led to the kitchen yard. She eyed the thick blackness as she moved past the questionable comforts of lamplight to the scullery sink, wondering at her own nerves. Steady now, she admonished herself. You are overtired and overwrought. It is only wind.
Still, she moved swiftly back into the kitchen, busying herself with tidying up the work table and trying to ignore the shivers that prickled and sang over her skin. Sighing, she rubbed her forehead and leaned against the table’s edge, enjoying the warmth from the range oven and the glow of the lamp.
Like a tongue testing a sore tooth, her mind drifted back to her most pressing quandary. By all rights, she should marry Holstoke. Perhaps he lacked conversation. Oh, very well, the man was approximately as charming as cold milk. But he was a good man. Perceptive and thoughtful. Unquestionably intelligent, if a bit odd.
She smiled, recalling their Kensington Gardens visit when his awkward attempts at describing a particular plant’s beauty had forced her to cover a sudden cough. Flagrantly swelling anthers and beckoning stigma, indeed. She would never look upon lilies the same way again.
No, if one wanted witty banter, one must marry a man like Henry.
A familiar ache settled in her chest. Slowly, she slid her hand inside her apron pocket and withdrew the twin sheets of paper, folded into quarters, yellowed and careworn.
His tenth letter. Silly to keep it with her—she’d read the thing so many times, she could recite it from memory. Unfolding the pages, she forced herself to read his words again. Forced herself to remember why her quandary was no quandary at all, as marrying Henry Thorpe had never been an option.
Dearest Pet,
Rec’d your letter of 12th December. Happy Christmas, lovely one. How kind of you to speak of my humble self in such fond terms. There is no earthly creature whose admiration I more fervently desire, for your discernment in the debate between damask and brocade is distinguished by its rarity. You are, in short, remarkable.
She paused, smiling. Henry had always taken pains to spare her feelings, and this was no exception. Her letter of 12th December had been rife with passionate declarations of affection for “quite the finest gentleman I have ever encountered.” In four pages, she’d devoted one sentence to his discriminating taste in waistcoats, simply because she’d needed to round out the list of reasons why she loved him. Posting her missive—a bold departure from their prior correspondence—had soon drowned her in a sea of apprehension. Even now, her cheeks heated to recall her words, florid and adoring as only an infatuated young woman could be. In his response, he’d elected to focus upon the point about his waistcoats, making her laugh and setting her at ease.
Henry did that often.
Taking a deep breath, she forged on to read the rest of the letter. It had never been more important to remember why marrying Henry was a fruitless fantasy.
For this reason, I must protest your magnificent portrayals, as I am wholly unworthy of your generous regard. It has been the singular honor of my life to be counted your friend, and I should be hanged were I to mislead your affections. In truth, you are as splendid as the first spark of sunlight awakening the sky. You deserve a husband who will gaze upon you each morning, knowing your light is the only one he shall ever require.
With the profoundest sorrow, I must tell you I am not that man.
Again, she stopped reading. He’d written more—descriptions of her sterling character and claims about his shortcomings—but none of it mattered.
I am not that man. Those words had shattered her foolish, besotted heart. The letter had arrived on Christmas Eve. By February, Maureen had managed to resume eating normally and sleeping through the night. She’d even maintained a correspondence with his mother. The following spring when she’d seen him in London, he’d behaved as though nothing had occurred, teasing her about her fondness for yellow silk and asking her opinion of walking sticks as foppish affectations.
At first, she had responded with cool formality. But Henry had been relentless, seeking her out at every gathering she’d attended—even Almack’s—prodding her with amusing anecdotes and wry observations until she’d lost all resistance. Over the course of months, he’d ensconced himself in her life, treating her as a beloved friend. Some had even mistaken his attentions for that of a suitor. She, however, had kept his tenth letter, so she would never again suffer such a delusion.
Folding the letter now, she rubbed her thumb over the broken seal and slipped it back inside her pocket. She sniffed and wiped her eyes.
Henry had done a noble thing. Other gentlemen might have taken advantage, perhaps even compromised her to satisfy their own selfish desires. She knew now, of course, that he was hardly immune to lust. His kiss had proven as much. Those lips. That tongue. The unrelenting hardness. In truth, had Regina not interrupted them, he might have taken her to his bed then and there.
Swallowing against a parched throat, she brushed at the sudden sweat along her brow. The kitchen was rather warm. Perhaps she should check the oven.
She was moving to do just that when something hard snagged across her waist. Something sleek and cool and damp slid across her mouth. And someone very, very strong clasped her tightly against a muscular frame.
Ice bloomed in her veins. Every fiber seized up, prepared to fight. An instant later, she clawed at the hand over her mouth, jerked forward at the waist, and used all her weight to drive the back of her head up toward the intruder’s face. Rather than shouting in pain, however, the man grunted and shifted his head to the side, his grip tightening until she squeaked.
“If I hadn’t been the one to teach you that maneuver, pet, you would surely have brained me,” said a silken voice into her ear. “Well done.”
Blood pounding, heart imploding, Maureen struggled to suck air into her burning chest. The arms around her gentled. The gloved hand slid from her mouth.
“H-Henry?” She shoved away, spinning to face him. He was drenched, his hair dark and plastered to his skull, his skin sheening in the lamplight.
He raised his hands to motion surrender. “Only trying to prevent you waking the dead with your screams.”
“What in blazes …” she panted, still struggling to understand. Henry was here. In her kitchen. In the middle of the night. “… are you about? You scared the life out of me.”
He shrugged out of his greatcoat, tossing it over a chair. Then, he removed his gloves. Beneath, he wore his usual ensemble of dark tailcoat, shimmering waistcoat, and white cravat. Shaking droplets from his hair, he heaved a sigh. “I needed to speak with you.”
“It is half-past two!”
“Yes, well. This could not wait.”
“And you are in my kitchen. How did you—”
“Through the scullery door. You should speak to your butler about repairing the lock on the mews gate. I might have been anyone—a burglar or a nefarious intruder.”
“You are an intruder!”
“Shh, pet. Let’s not wake the footmen from their slumber. I’ve no taste for violence.” He glanced around nonchalantly. “What is that heavenly scent?”
She crossed her arms and leaned her hip against the table. “Orange cakes. How did you know I would be here, Henry?”
He grinned. “Orange cakes. Those do sound delicious.”
“Answer me,” she snapped. “No one knows about—”
“About your little cookery habit? Oh, some of us do. Your mother likes to pretend ignorance, but she’s known for years. So have your sisters. Jane, for instance. And Harrison.”
She sighed. Then laughed. Then rubbed her tired eyes. To think she’d imagined only Mrs. Dunn and a few maids and footmen knew her secret—the maids because they insisted on cleaning up after her, and the footmen because she baked sweets to bribe them into providing frequent baths. As it turned out, her secret sessions in the kitchen had been no secret at all. They all must think her perfectly daft. Perhaps they were right.
Shaking her head, she focused on Henry. Lean, damp, tempting Henry. “Why are you here?”
A single chestnut brow lifted. “To see you privately.”
“You could have seen me in the morning. In the drawing room. Like a normal visitor.”
He sniffed and swiped his own wet cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Perhaps you have a cloth? And tea. Tea would not go amiss.”
“If you had wanted tea, you should have come at a decent hour!”
“This hour seems decent enough. Unless you’d care to make it indecent. We could, you know.”
With a huff, she spun and stomped to the oven, ensured the cakes had risen sufficiently, and transferred them onto the table to cool. All the while, Henry wandered about, examining this and that, behaving as though he were an invited guest rather than a bothersome interloper who had frightened her out of her wits.
Now, he came to stand beside her, bringing with him the scents of rainwater and sandalwood. “How did you learn, pet? These look divine.”
“Mrs. Dunn tired of shooing me from her kitchen. After a time, I was permitted to stay and watch. Later, she agreed to instruct me.” She glanced up at him, noting how one lock of hair fell over his forehead, darkened and dripping. Offering up the linen cloth she’d used to handle the pan, she fought the urge to run her fingers over him. “You should have worn a hat in this downpour, silly man.”
His grin grew as he accepted the cloth. The stroke of his fingers against hers felt deliberate—and tingly. “Carried away by a gust, I’m afraid.” He wiped at his face with quick swipes and ran the cloth over his hair before tossing it onto the table.
Why he should weaken her to the point of breathlessness, she did not know. Perhaps his lips, full and shining, were to blame. Perhaps it was the muscled arms revealed by a coat tailored precisely to his contours. Or the assurance with which he moved, every motion swift and contained, agile and efficient.
Dash it all, she did not know why he’d always been such a temptation. She only knew she must tear herself away before something happened. Something irreversible.
She dropped her eyes and took up the towel, busying herself with transferring the cakes to a sideboard a few feet away. Then, she moved back to the table and began sweeping the surface with more vigor than necessary.
“You cannot marry him, pet.”
Half-bent over the table, she froze. Then straightened, clutching the towel in her fist. And breathed. In. Out. In. Out.
“I realize it is a lot to ask, given our … history together.” As usual, his rich baritone sent shivers over her scalp and down her spine.
Fresh from reading his tenth letter, however, his words had a different effect. They filled her with fury.
“No,” she managed through a tight throat. “It is an insult to ask. An insult, Henry.” She wrung the towel into a knot and threw it at his chest. He caught it without looking. “You do not want me, have never wanted me. Yet, you’ve kept me close, even knowing how I f-feel about you. Knowing how I yearn to be a wife and a mother. Perhaps you did not intend to be cruel, but that has been the result.”
In the golden light, his dark eyes held a hard intensity she’d rarely witnessed. The last time had been a bright afternoon in his bedchamber when he’d torn the draperies from his windows.
“I accept my failures,” she continued, busying her hands with removing her apron. “If some men find me displeasing, you are hardly to blame for that. But this may be my one chance at happiness, and I do blame you for trying to spoil it.”
“I am not trying to spoil anything, Maureen.” His voice was pure steel, his eyes flashing as he moved in close, crowding her with his heat and scent. “I am trying to tell you—”
“He is a good man,” she insisted, retreating to gain some distance. He granted her nothing, advancing until the table’s edge was at her back and a hard, lean, volatile male was at her front. “He will be a good husband.”
“He is not me,” he gritted. “And I am the man you want.”
The arrogance of his claim made her want to strike him. Mutely, she shook her head, surrounded by his strength and heat, watching a bead of water wend its way from his jaw to the hollow at the base of his throat. “Even if that were true—”
“It is.”
“—nothing is changed.”
He refused to release her, holding her captive with eyes that flickered and burned. “Marry me instead.”
In the silence that followed—pounding, fraught silence—she wondered if he was drunk. Or worse, jesting. A cruel sort of mockery, indeed, given her feelings for him. But as she explored his face from high-bridged nose to tempting lips and back up to midnight eyes, she detected no signs of humor. Quite the contrary. She’d never seen him more sober.
“Henry,” she whispered. It was the best she could do without proper air.
“I’ve tried to spare you, pet. Unlike Holstoke, I am decidedly not a good man.” He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her brow tenderly, his fingers caressing her jaw and ear. “But you insist on tormenting me, and I cannot allow you to marry anyone else. Which leaves only one choice. You must marry me. God help us both.”
*~*~*
Maureen Huxley smelled as delectable as her orange cakes. Henry longed to devour her bite by bite, starting with the speck of yellow flotsam on her cheekbone and finishing with her trembling, half-open lips. Afire with lust from the moment he’d entered the kitchen, he’d watched her from the shadows for long minutes. He’d traced the contours of her neck, the solemn cast of golden light along her jaw. He’d savored her presence, calming and domestic, watching her sigh and move with natural competence about her tasks. He’d listened to the battering rain, awash in the full force of his love for her.
Now, her eyes searched his, a crinkle forming between her brows. She cradled his hand against her cheek and shook her head gently. “I thought you were sotted,” she murmured. “But it is worse. You are mad, through and through.”
He laughed, his chest expanding until he thought his ribs might crack. Good God, she was beautiful. Even when she was a mess. “Mad for you, perhaps.”
Suddenly, a soft mouth crimped. Dimpled cheeks flushed. Flashing eyes narrowed. And Henry staggered back as a pair of surprisingly strong, feminine hands shoved his solar plexus, gouging him with a waistcoat button and separating him from her delectable self rather convincingly.
“Bloody hell, Maureen.” He rubbed the heel of his hand against the likely bruise in the center of his chest.
She was having none of it. No, his sweet prospective bride was furious beyond measure, her skin flushed and vibrating, her fists clutching the table behind her as though to keep herself from hurting him.
“Bloody hell, Henry,” she spat. “‘I am not that man,’ That is what you said. ‘I am not that man.’ Not the man who wants me. Not the man who will love me. Not the man I deserve.”
He swallowed. “You have an excellent memory.”
She snagged her apron from the table without looking, dug into the pocket, and held up a familiar square of paper between two fingers. “No. I have your letter, Lord Dunston. Your words.”
His heart twisted as he saw the worn edges of the paper, the signs that it had been unfolded and refolded numerous times. She’d kept it with her. Read it again and again. His bloody lie, told for reasons he could not explain to her, not without putting her in greater danger.
He wanted to snatch the thing from her hand and toss it on the dying coals. Instead, he could only tell her the truth and hope it would be enough. “I lied.”
Her eyes flared, firing incredulity at him like a cannon. “You lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
She threw up her hands. “From what, pray tell? Destitution due to waistcoat extravagance?”
For years, he had been frustrated by the need to keep her in the dark. How many times had he yearned to tell her the truth? The day after he’d killed Boyle, he’d drunk himself numb and written her a letter, explaining everything. He’d burned the missive shortly thereafter, of course. The less she knew, the less likely she was to become a target. The Investor preferred not to leave loose ends. Boyle’s wife could attest to that.
He moved closer, halting when she stiffened. “You’ve known one side of me, pet, the side I wish to show you. But there is another. Selfish and dark.”
Her subtle frown suggested she’d glimpsed it already—the day she’d come to his bedchamber, most likely.
“Were I a stronger man, a better man, I would keep you from that part of me forever.” Again, he stepped closer, watching the hypnotic rise and fall of her breasts, the tiny tug of her brows as she listened. “Alas, all of me wants you too much to let you go.”
“So, now I should simply throw Holstoke over for you.” She tossed the apron and letter on the table and crossed her arms over her chest. “Because you want me.”
“No. Because you are in love with me.”
“Bloody arrogant bastard.”
He sighed. “Yes, well, this is what I’ve been trying to tell you. God knows what you find so irresistible in me.”
“Precisely!”
As they conversed, he’d been slowly inching toward her so that now, he stood close enough to smell her hair. Orange flowers and vanilla. She made his mouth water.
“I only know this,” he continued, breathing her in and battling the urge to touch her. “Standing in St. George’s on Harrison and Jane’s wedding day, I heard the vows and imagined saying them to you.”
Her arms loosened as her breath quickened.
“Then, during our stay at Blackmore Hall, I fell so madly in love, I thought it some wicked enchantment.” He grinned. “And so it was. Wicked, indeed. You turned me inside out, pet. Made me yours with a single, wondrous laugh.”
She was softening. He could sense it. Then, she pushed away from the table and propped her hands on her hips, her breasts dangerously close to his chest.
“Explain it, then.”
He raised a brow.
“Go on. Explain why you didn’t beg me to marry you two bloody years ago.”
“Why the new fondness for vulgarity?”
“I find it bloody satisfying when faced with infuriating men. Do not change the subject.”
He cleared his throat. “What would you have me say?”
Alarmingly, her eyes began to fill and shimmer, her lower lip to quiver. “Give me a reason to forgive you, Henry. Because, at the moment, I can think of none.”
Dark and grinding and hollow, his regrets rose up to fill him in a tide. He had hurt her. He’d done his best to avoid it, of course. But some pain could not be prevented. And every bit of agony he’d ever caused her had lived inside him like a festering thorn.
That force had driven him to finally abandon the course he’d set for himself over a decade earlier. He might have borne his own pain—the bitter jealousy at the thought of another man touching her, the unquenched need to unburden himself, to feel her stroke his cheek and hear her speak his name.
Yes, he might have borne it. But the day she’d told him goodbye, he’d known the severity of the wounds he’d dealt her. His beautiful, funny, naïve Maureen. Bleeding as surely as if he’d run her through.
No longer. He would repair what he’d broken, beginning now. He would bloody well put her heart first, as he should have done from the start.
To that end, he’d spent the afternoon in Sebastian Reaver’s office, transferring into Reaver’s hands every account and analytical supposition and hard-won bit of information he’d compiled on the Investor. The club owner had been savagely eager, like a wolf anticipating a new meal. Drayton had been there, too, ready to carry on the hunt with a new partner. The runner had given him a rare smile as they’d departed that evening, clapping him on the shoulder and shaking his hand while muttering, “About time, you ask me. Been waiting years for this.”
Henry agreed. He’d been waiting years, too.
Hesitating no longer, he now took the woman he loved more than his own life into his arms. She struggled a moment, but he simply held her as she batted his ribs lightly and shook her head against him.
“I am sorry,” he rasped into her ear, “for every moment of pain I have ever caused you. I only ever wanted your happiness, and I believed you deserved better than to have me for your husband.”
“It is not enough,” she mumbled wetly into his cravat, her fists now alternately pummeling and clutching his back.
Cradling her soft warmth against him, he kissed her cheek, trailed his lips along her jaw to her chin. Finally, he caressed her mouth reverently with his. Satisfaction surged as she responded with a little flicker of her tongue. He smiled against her and returned the favor.
“I will spend every day on my knees, begging your forgiveness, pet.” He ran his tongue deliberately along her lower lip, stroking and tempting her to follow as his hands drew her hips into his. “I will work tirelessly to bring you unimaginable pleasure, all to express my deep and abiding remorse.”
Her tiny, feminine grunt and panting breaths were most encouraging.
“I vow I will earn your forgiveness kiss by kiss by kimmph …” Of a sudden, he found her mouth sealed to his, her tongue caressing his, her hands tugging at his cravat and dragging him down into her.
Good God, she was more than he’d ever dreamed. Delicious as cream-soaked butter cakes. Hot as the brilliant August sun on a long ride across Fairfield Park. His blood pounded at a full gallop.
He dug his fingers into her waist, yanked her harder against him. Loved the sensation of her hands upon his jaw, her mouth demanding more, her luscious breasts flattened against him. His lust demanded that he explore. Expose. Strip her bare and lay her out upon the table like a feast to be consumed.
His hands gathered her skirts, pulling with desperate motions. His hips ground against her softness, trying to ease the ferocious cock that had hardened from iron to steel when his sweet-natured Maureen had taken control.
She was rubbing herself against him now, grinding her hips upward. Obviously, she needed to be higher.
He gladly obliged, grasping her thighs and lifting, settling her backside on the table as she yelped against his mouth. The sound was distant amidst the pounding, relentless need. They both panted, breathing each other, devouring each other. He shoved her skirts higher, forced her thighs wider to accept his hips, and ground himself against the heart of her.
Her head fell back. “Oh, God, Henry. I’ve never felt anything this good.”
He dismissed the assertion. She had no idea what “good” could be. And she’d left her lovely neck open to him. He took full advantage, burying his mouth against the vulnerable hollow beneath her ear then sliding his tongue down to her collarbone.
Between her thighs, he forced her to accept the caress of his cock, albeit through the thin layer of his riding breeches. And one of his hands, only half-satisfied with gripping her waist, contented itself with finally, at long last, learning the full measure of her breast. Soft. Lush. Round. Centered by a pouting nipple he set immediately to stroking with his thumb.
Her groan choked in the middle. She fisted his hair and gasped in time with his rhythm.
He was going to come. He felt it gathering. Good God, he was going to humiliate himself by spending inside his breeches if he did not do something. The answer was obvious, of course. He should take her. She was wet enough to soak him. Aroused and on the precipice of her peak.
He should take her. Ruin her. She would be forced to marry him, then. No more Holstoke. Nor more options.
Panting against her salty skin, he fought himself. Halted his hips. Retreated an inch. Tightened his muscles as she mewled her protest.
“Shh, pet,” he whispered, feeling his control slipping like a man’s desperate fingers from the edge of a cliff. “I shall see to your pleasure. Always.”
Her hips rocked and scooted closer as the table beneath her creaked. She grasped at his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. Firm thighs gripped him, making his retreat difficult. If he continued, he would either be carrying her or dropping her off the edge.
Instead, he regained control by squeezing the hard, swollen nipple between his fingers.
She squeaked.
He slid his other hand past the bunched skirts at her waist, down to the warm, wet thatch between her legs.
Good God. Fleecy, soft, and slick, her sweet petals had flowered open for him, begging for his cock to satisfy her. He could not give her that—not if he wished to live with himself. So, instead, he gave her his touch. Gentle and brushing at first, as he learned what she liked. Then with a little more firmness as he circled the swollen nub in time with her needy gasps.
She broke from his kiss, open-mouthed and clawing at his neck.
It was then that her scent hit him fully. Vanilla, ripe and lush and sweet. The lighter scents of rosewater and orange blossoms were faint, but the overwhelming rush was vanilla and aroused woman.
He wanted a taste.
He dropped to his knees.
Settled his hands just above her stockings, upon soft, white thighs.
Faintly, he heard her saying his name with a querulous tone. But he couldn’t hear much when his pulse pounded like rain on a metal sheet. She was beautiful. Pink and shimmering in the golden light, shadowed by damp, brown ringlets.
He set his mouth upon her, ignoring the sharp tug of her hands in his hair. He needed this—the salty-sweet of her on his tongue and inside his senses. Vanilla and woman. He flickered his tongue over her swollen nub, first taking it directly, then softening as she jerked on a spasm of shocking pleasure. Now, he circled and let her guide him, her fingertips working against his scalp, her thighs relaxing where he gripped them. Too soon—much too soon—her urgent writhing coalesced with her plaintive cries. He thrust his tongue inside the greedy mouth of her sex, determined to feel every small ripple, to be inside her just enough to make her pleasure a part of him.
In the aftermath, he soothed her with a string of kisses along her thighs and the resettling of her skirts. He stood, half-bent with the pain of his arousal. She continued caressing his jaw, now rubbing her thumbs over his lips. Now pulling his forehead down to touch hers.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Her eyes, glowing gold, smiled up at him. “I believe you,” she whispered back. Then, her eyes grew solemn, sending a chill across his heated flesh. “But this is marriage, Henry. A lifetime. And I fear I cannot give you the answer you desire.”
*~*~*