Chapter Eighteen
Eve walked beside Lady Rushton as if in a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. How bad was the situation? She was married to a man she barely knew, but, heaven help her, she had fallen in love with. His long list of paramours indicated that many women were affected in the same manner—and no doubt many more would be added to his conquests. And that, she realized with painful intensity, was the problem. Well, one of the problems. She wanted him, and he’d made it clear he wanted her. But that was where it always ended for him.
She and the marchioness climbed the stairs to another story and through a labyrinth of hallways that left Eve dizzy. At last Lady Rushton stopped in front of a room and opened the door. She entered first and Eve followed.
“This is the parlor,” the marchioness said. A fire burned in the hearth, and the room was furnished with two couches, two chairs, a small desk and sideboard stocked with liquor. She crossed to a door on the left and entered the room. “This is the master bedroom, with the lady’s room here.” She walked past a massive four-poster bed to another door and Eve followed into a smaller, but just as lavishly furnished, room. The burgundy quilt had been turned back on the bed and a settee was located in front of the crackling hearth fire. “There is a tub behind the screen there.” The marchioness pointed to the left corner near the hearth, where stood a magnificent painted Chinese screen with gilded leather. An ornate pedestal work table with a silk workbag sat against the wall to the left of the bed.
“This is too much, ma’am,” Eve said.
She laughed. “Not at all. The suite is perfect for you and Erroll. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”
How long would that be? Would Lord Rushton keep his promise and not abandon her in Scotland, or would they rush back to Town with all its traps and distractions? Which would be worse, staying here alone, or being with him where she was bound to encounter the women he kept?
Eve caught sight of a nightdress draped across the chair nearest the bed and realized the garment had been laid out for her. Her stomach somersaulted. How was she going to get through the night? Her mind flashed back to her encounter with Lord Rushton in the alcove half an hour ago and knew very well how she was going to get through the night.
At the sound of a knock on her bedchamber door, Eve looked up from the floor and shifted on the edge of the mattress where she sat. “Come in.”
The door opened and Lord Rushton entered. To her surprise, he hadn’t changed into a robe—under which she had expected him to be naked—but wore the breeches and white shirt he’d worn in the library. Eve recalled the marchioness telling her that the marquess had been sensitive to her fears during their wedding night—though Eve suddenly wished she had asked exactly what that meant—and said, “Did your mother have a talk with you?”
A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Was she supposed to have a talk with me?”
Eve shook her head. “No. But your attire makes me wonder.”
He closed the door and crossed to the bed. “I am not certain what that means.”
“It means, my lord, that I am wondering why you are dressed. Do grooms not generally greet their new brides naked?”
Surprise—and was that delight?—flickered in his eyes. “If you are that anxious, I can oblige.” He tugged his shirttails from the waistband of his britches.
“Do men use any excuse to get their clothes off while in the presence of a woman?” Eve asked.
“We need little encouragement.” He dropped the shirttail, but didn’t unbutton the shirt. “A wedding night needs no excuses. You gave me the impression you were receptive.”
“I asked a simple question,” she replied.
“Would you rather I spent the night in my room?”
Why not, she wondered? He would doubtless spend most of his nights in his own room—after returning home from his mistress’ bed. But she said, “You implied that your husbandly duties would make marriage to you worthwhile.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked nonplussed, and Eve couldn’t help laughing.
He frowned. “I didn’t quite put it that way.”
“My lord,” she said through a hiccup of nervous laughter, “have I trod upon your masculine sensibilities?”
“I do not have masculine sensibilities.”
He actually sounded offended. Eve recalled Grace saying that she had wounded his pride. “But you do, and I have trampled upon them.”
His eyes narrowed. “If it is masculine sensibilities you want, then it is masculine sensibilities you shall have.” He reached for her, but she scooted back on the bed before he could grab her. Lord Rushton straightened, a gleam in his eye. “Would you like a game of chase in the bargain?”
He began a slow walk around the foot of the bed, then abruptly dove for her. Eve squealed and leapt from the bed. He landed, face down on the mattress where she’d been, then rolled from the bed onto his feet and advanced on her. Eve retreated until her calves bumped into something. She jumped aside and the worktable she’d bumped into fell onto its side. The top fell off, and a chessboard inside struck the carpet.
“Oh dear,” Eve cried.
She dropped to her knees and picked up the chessboard. An instant later, Lord Rushton knelt beside her and grasped her arms.
Eve twisted in an effort to break free. “Let me go.”
“No.”
She snapped her head up and looked into his eyes. She suddenly felt weak as a kitten. This feeling, she decided, was going to be her undoing—and Lord Rushton knew it, and would relish her downfall.
She gave him a critical look. “If you think I’ll melt every time you look at me like that, you have quite another thing coming, my lord.”
“Do I, indeed?” he said. “I am a groom who has yet to be kissed by his wife.”
“You have kissed me on several occasions.” The memory of those most recent kisses in the hallway alcove sent butterflies skimming across the insides of her stomach.
“But you were not my wife and, in fact, madam, you have never kissed me.”
“If our families had given us a proper wedding, you would not have this complaint,” she said.
“I know how to solve the problem,” he drawled.
Eve knew exactly what he meant. She dropped the chessboard, seized his shoulders, and kissed him—hard. When she pulled back, there was an audible smacking sound.
Lord Rushton stared and Eve started to fear she’d displeased him. Then he said, “That was very nice.”
“Thank you.”
He blinked in obvious surprise. “Thank you?”
“Thank you, my lord?” she tried.
His mouth twisted into a wry grin. “Apparently, I am losing my touch.”
Eve snorted. “Hardly.” She pulled free of his hold and righted the table, then picked up the chessboard. She caught sight of the backgammon board on its side inside the table. “Do you play backgammon, sir?”
“I played when I was young.”
Eve heard the bemused note in his voice. Discussing backgammon was probably the last thing a rakehell like Lord Rushton thought he would be doing on his wedding night. The truth was, she was torn between kissing him again and wanting to run as far from him as she could.
“I loved to play when I was young,” she said.
“If I had courted you properly, would we have played backgammon?”
Eve looked at him and frowned. “That is an odd question.”
“This is an odd situation,” he replied.
“Many people marry as strangers.”
“True. But those are usually arranged marriages. The average couple generally has some mutual knowledge of one another beforehand. No one I know marries as a result of mistaken identity and a kidnapping to Gretna.” He rose and extended a hand to her. “Shall we begin?”
“Begin?”
“A courtship.”
She shook her head. “One game of backgammon does not constitute a courtship.”
“No, but it is a start. Come along.”
He smiled gently, his hand still extended, and Eve found herself placing her hand in his. Moments later, they sat on the floor in front of the hearth with the backgammon board and pieces in their starting positions between them. A decanter of brandy and two glasses were arranged beside the board.
He filled both glasses, then gave her one and took a healthy swig from his. “Drink a bit. It will warm you.”
Eve recalled Grace saying that one of his faults was that he drank a lot. “You say that often,” she said.
He laughed. “Because it is true. Have a sip, then you roll first.”
She took a small sip, then tucked her knees to her side and braced the palm of her free hand on the carpet as she rolled. Eve moved her pieces, then he rolled and moved as she sipped her brandy. Of course, he was right, the liquid warmed her throat and belly, and she began to relax. She rolled again, and moved her pieces.
“You are in luck,” he said. “So far you’re able to protect your pieces.”
Eve wasn’t sure how lucky he was, especially when he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirtsleeves and rolled them up to reveal lean, tanned forearms. She wanted to look away, but was afraid he would notice her discomfiture.
She took a gulp of the brandy. “You grew up here in Ravenhall?”
“I did.” He rolled the dice.
“It must have been wonderful.”
“I have many fond memories,” he replied. “Tomorrow, if you like, I’ll show you some of the grounds.”
“I would like that very much.”
Her heart sped up a notch. So he wasn’t forcing her to return to England right away. She longed to ask how long they would stay in Scotland, but the truth was, it mattered little whether it was tomorrow or next week. When they returned, the result would be the same.
They rolled two more times and Eve sent one of his pieces to the middle of the board to start over. She narrowed her eyes. “I think you are letting me win.”
”You saw the roll of die. I have played good moves. I told you luck was with you.”
“I am not so lucky,” she said. “Neither are you, for that matter.”
“On the contrary, I am very lucky.”
“Rubbish. You have been forced to marry when you did not want to, and to a woman you barely know.”
“I know you well enough to know I like you.”
Eve stilled, the dice in hand. “You like me?”
“Had I not liked you, I wouldn’t have stayed in Manchester.”
“Why?” She rolled. “Why do you like me, I mean?”
“Because you are honest and forthright.”
“Forthright?” She scrunched her nose in distaste. “That is a way of saying pushy.”
“No. It is not.”
Eve recalled Lady Gallagher waylaying them in the gardens. “Honest… unlike Lady Gallagher?”
“So you remember her,” he said.
“I am not likely to forget anything about that night.” Eve counted off her moves and was forced to leave one of her pieces exposed. “Lord, that’s justice, is it not? I planned to kidnap you, so fate had me kidnapped, too.”
Eve glimpsed the upturn of his generous mouth as he reached for the decanter. “Fate has a way of intervening at the most importune moments.” He refilled their glasses.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “If you had ended up in Gretna without me, you would have married Grace.”
“You do not know me at all if you still think that, madam.”
“You would have allowed her reputation to be ruined?”
“Eve, it was a hair-brained scheme from the start. There was no chance of success.”
She wanted to argue, but her mouth had gone dry at hearing her name on his lips. He rolled and was able to position his pieces to capture her exposed game piece.
Eve took the dice and rolled. “I don’t think our fathers would have let you off.”
“No matter. I would have returned her to Manchester, then taken you to Gretna and married you.”
Eve stared. “That is utterly ridiculous.”
“I don’t know why. Make your move.”
She glanced at the dice, then made a quick move.
“Eve, you aren’t paying attention,” he said. “There is a good chance I will take one, or both, of the pieces you left vulnerable.”
“I think you’re all bluster,” she said.
He pointed at the board. “See for yourself. You have—”
“Good heavens. I’m not speaking of the game. I am talking about you saying you would have brought Grace home then forced me to accompany you to Gretna. That is rubbish.”
“If you say so. I am a gentleman, and I will let you make a better move.”
“I am sorry you are stuck with me,” she said.
His head snapped up, his expression hard. “That is rubbish. If anything, it is you who are stuck with me.”
She was struck speechless.
“Now, since you don’t seem willing to reconsider your move, it is my turn. Beware, madam.” He rolled the dice and one die landed askew against the side of the board.
“Double sixes,” he declared, and moved one of his pieces to take her piece.
“That is not a six,” Eve said. “The die landed so that it might be a six or a three. You must roll again.”
“It is clearly a six,” he said.
Eve straightened. “You are cheating!”
He reached for the dice, but she slapped his hand aside.
“I gave you the chance to reconsider your move and you didn’t. Now you must pay the price.” He laughed and tried to grab them again.
Eve shoved at his chest and he toppled backwards as she snatched up the dice. He was upright in the next instant and his arm shot around her waist. She squealed as he dragged her onto his lap, scattering the pieces across the board. The arm around her waist tightened as he tickled her with his free hand. Eve gave a loud peal of laughter and kicked in reflex, sending the board skidding across the carpet.
“My lord, that—“ His fingers dug gently but deep into her stomach so that the tickle seemed to reach clear to her bones, and she threw her head back against his chest in an effort to break free. He was laughing as hard as she.
“Let me go!” she gasped. “This is—” she shrieked “--unfair."
“Indeed, it is.” He seized her knee and squeezed.
The compelling desire to squeal with laughter crashed through her. Eve grabbed his hand and tried to yank it away from the sensitive flesh, but his grip, though gentle, might as well have been a vice. He squeezed and she kicked while yanking at his arm with both hands. He released the leg, then tickled her stomach again.
"I will avenge myself!" Eve shoved at his chest, then froze, her face a bare inch from his. He stilled as well, and she was suddenly aware of his hard thighs--and the hard length of him--beneath her bottom. “I believe you are forfeit this game,” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own.
“Have I now?”
She nodded. He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. The hand he'd been tickling her with slid up her arm and into her hair. The faint scent of the soap he had used to shave tantalized her senses, along with something else--his tongue traced her lips—his masculine scent, she realized, all him, and all male. The smell made her want to rub herself all over him. Her heart pounded in anticipation of his mouth sliding lower to her breasts as it had earlier, but instead, he nipped at her bottom lip. A flush of warmth radiated from her belly.
The fingers in her hair tightened, sending a prickle of gooseflesh down her neck and along her arms. He covered her mouth with his. An ache thrummed between her legs and she recalled the way his clever fingers had touched her in the alcove little more than an hour ago. Shame rolled over her at the realization that she wanted him to do that to her again. He had said she would be the most fortunate of women if she married him. What kind of woman was she to want this from him when he would give nothing else but this fleeting and most wicked pleasure? He flicked at her lips with his tongue and she opened without hesitation. With a low groan, he twirled his tongue around hers.
Eve closed her fingers around his shirt and shifted on his lap. His erection, hard and insistent, dug into the soft flesh of her buttocks. He stiffened as if in pain, then his kiss turned fierce. Eve was startled to realize he'd liked it when she'd shifted on his lap. His mouth ravaged hers, and her mind whirled, but she focused through the gray and wiggled on his lap. The fingers in her hair tightened and he pulled her head back while his mouth skimmed across her cheek. She wiggled more ardently. The arm around her waist gripped her more firmly and pressed her buttocks hard against him. She wiggled again and he hissed a breath.
His lips touched her ear. "You are very naughty, madam."
The words combined with his husky voice made her body heat like molten lava.
“I stand ready to play backgammon with you anytime you please,” he whispered.
Holy God, if this was how he played backgammon, she wanted to play every day.
He released a slow sigh. His breath washed over her ear and neck, and sent a shiver down her arms. He held her close for a long moment, then drew in a deep breath, his chest rising then lowering with the release.
"Will you go riding with me tomorrow?" he asked.
He was asking about riding...tomorrow, on his wedding night...at this moment?
"Riding?" she repeated.
He drew back and looked down at her. “It isn’t Hyde Park, and we will not be seen by the ton, but Mull is quite beautiful.”
“As I told you, I care nothing for Society.”
“So you did.” He seemed to hesitate, then sat her upright and lifted her off his lap and onto the carpet.
She sat while he retrieved the board and pieces and put them back into the table. He put the table back in its place against the wall, then came back to where she sat.
“It is nearly five thirty in the morning. We had best get some rest.”
Her heart raced. She nodded. He pulled her to her feet, kissed her gently, then turned and started toward the door.
Eve stood frozen, uncertain what to do. “Where are you going?” she blurted.
He stopped and turned. “To bed.”
“But—” She looked helplessly at him. “Downstairs in the alcove, you said you intended to—” She broke off, unable to say the words.
He smiled gently. “That was perhaps unfair of me.”
Eve stiffened. “I see.”
“I doubt that you do, love.”
Why did he call her words like that?
“Tomorrow morning we will ride together.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
For an instant, it seemed he would say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he left. And Eve sat alone in the room.