Chapter Thirteen
It took a moment for the various ways that statement could be taken to coalesce in Daisy’s turbulent thoughts.
“You are rotten to the core, Ashton Graham.”
His gaze connected with hers like flint striking steel. Sparks of response showered through her, and she felt it coming, inevitable as sunrise. He was going to kiss her and she was going to respond. She would probably regret it afterward, but for now, the desire for his lips against hers and the urge to press her body against his big, potent frame were overpowering.
“There we disagree, sweet Daisy. My core is perfectly sound. If you’ll permit me to demonstrate—”
He grabbed her hand and reeled her against him, never taking his gaze from hers. She met his kiss with desire of her own. He filled her arms, her head, and her lungs—she drank him in on every breath and craved more. His mouth was demanding one minute, soft and giving the next, producing sensations so intense she was momentarily overwhelmed. Her nerves, her very bones began to resonate with a kind of need she had never felt before.
He ran his hands over her body, tracing the lines of her stylish traveling clothes and groaning against her mouth in appreciation. She ran her hands inside his coat and beneath the edges of his vest, tracing his sides and back, finding his shape exactly as she imagined it—strong, lean, and male. Compelled to greater exploration, she grasped handfuls of flesh and fabric, wanting to be closer, to claim and possess his body . . . needing to feel his strength and hardness around her . . . inside her.
“Mmmmmore,” she hummed against his mouth, setting up a delicious vibration in their lips and a tingle that spread through her face and down her throat.
“Mmmmmmy thoughts exactly.” He returned her murmur, then pulled back enough to work her jacket buttons.
Without breaking that bone-melting kiss, she dispatched his vest buttons and started on his shirt. Somewhere in the midst of the kissing and peeling and touching, they maneuvered further back in the car to where several hay bales lay stacked together, topped with a rough blanket. Through the haze in her senses she recognized Banks’s hat and grooming satchel and a couple of the penny dreadfuls he was known to read in his spare time. She sank onto the blanket and Ashton sank with her, then over her. She sighed silently as his body replaced her anticipation with steamy pleasure.
Her jacket and blouse were soon open and her breasts were bare above the demi-corset the countess insisted she wear. He nudged the top of that constraint aside and ran his face over the tip of her breast. That wrung a groan from her that made him chuckle and free her other breast to the same attention. She tugged down her corselet, baring more of herself and reveling in the erotic stimulation she had tried to convince herself no longer existed.
He cupped and massaged her breasts, then nuzzled and began to tease her nipples with his tongue. When he suckled sharply on one, she gasped but pulled his head harder against her, demanding more. He obliged until her whole body quivered with expectation and she writhed sensually beneath him, seeking a more satisfying blending of their bodies.
This, this was what she’d both wanted and feared from the moment they’d met. He somehow knew her desires, sensed her body’s paths to pleasure and her sensual predilections. His touch seemed tailored to the exact movement and pressure that drove her excitement to the brink.
She pushed him up for a moment, overwhelmed, seeking his gaze while struggling to catch her breath.
* * *
She lay beneath him, open and undone, bared to his pleasure. Ashton watched her sultry, instinctive movements, studying her naked breasts and the heat that bloomed in her cheeks and turned her eyes to molten silver. She was breathtaking. An enticement to sin and a passage to paradise rolled together into one irresistible feminine form. He had never known a woman like her, and it struck him that he would probably never know one like her again. She was one of a kind. Forthright, unpretentious, and unintentionally seductive. She didn’t have to pose, pout, or preen. Sensuality radiated from her like a rare, entrancing fragrance.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, wishing he had not said those words so many times before that now they sounded trite. He had never truly appreciated their full power before now, and that thought lodged in the back of his mind. As he ran his fingertips over her face, around her throat, and down the center of her chest, she curled around his touch and then rose to pull his mouth to hers again.
“You are, too, Ashton Graham,” she murmured against his lips. “You’re a tall, gorgeous, swagger of a man with a silky tongue and eyes that could melt Winter itself. I don’t know how the women of London can bear to let you leave the city.”
Her lips trapped his half-formed laugh in his throat and it came out a growl of need as his arms wrapped around her and she pushed him back so that her chest lay atop his. She threaded her fingers through his thick, soft hair as she licked his lips and kissed him within an inch of his sanity. His whole body was responding . . . skin, heart, loins. He was slowly losing his grip on all reality outside the luscious and irresistible Daisy Bumgarten.
The one small part of his consciousness that had not yet succumbed to glorious sensation detected the rumble of the wheels when the door opened. Years of secret liaisons and illicitly snatched pleasures had tuned his perceptions to sounds that might indicate discovery, and once again those defenses served him well.
“Oi, me dancin’ boy. Lookie what I brought ye.” It was Banks.
“Sap-headed pony-jack—yer spoilin’ ’em with them apples.” That was Daisy’s uncle.
Daisy had frozen beneath Ashton with eyes wide with dawning horror. He pressed a finger to her love-swollen lips and motioned her to stay before pulling away and frantically buttoning his shirt and vest. To her credit, she seemed to understand and helped, even as she stuffed herself back into her own clothes. As soon as he was presentable he rose from the pallet and made a show of yawning and stretching. Running his fingers through his hair to disarrange it further, he turned and stepped around the horses.
He had managed to grab one of Banks’s penny dreadfuls and stuck his thumb in it as if keeping a place. “There you are. Hope you don’t mind.” He strolled forward holding the book up for Banks to see. “I saw your book—thought I’d have a peek. Must have drifted off. No reflection on your taste in reading matter, Banks old man, I just had a late night.”
“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Red demanded, scowling.
“No tickets available, so I paid a small fee to sit back here with the baggage,” he said, looking as sincere as a man in the middle of a bold-faced lie could look. He’d had plenty of practice at that kind of deception, so his face—though still slightly flushed—was fairly convincing.
“Where’s Daisy? She came back for a look at the horses.” Red looked around and started around the horses.
“She was here?” He stifled a purposeful yawn and stepped into Red’s path. “I had no idea. Must have been while I was dozing back there.” Red frowned, looked around the baggage, barrels, and bales, and relented.
“Didn’t see her on the way back.” Red chewed on that a moment before giving him an out. “Must’ve gone to the priv—necessary, then.”
“Say, I’m famished.” Ashton rubbed his stomach. “Care for a bite of food and a drink? I’ve been meaning to ask you about Nevada. I hear you’re quite the expert on both silver and horses. And they have some wonderful Irish whiskey in Dining.”
It was as if he’d waved a magic wand. Red broke into a grin and he could almost see the old fellow salivating as he rubbed his bristled chin.
“Hell, yeah.”
* * *
Daisy sat as taut as a bowstring on the cushioned seat of the carriage the countess’s friend, Lady Regina, Countess of Albemarle, sent to the station for them. She had hoped to stay in a hotel and avoid the manners and endless courtesies required of a guest in a grand house, but once the invitation was extended, she had little say in the matter. According to the countess, to decline after announcing their presence in a way that practically begged an invitation would be unthinkable.
Of course, there was that business of “making friends” among the nobility, which was turning out to be time-consuming and exhausting. What she wouldn’t give for a good hard ride and some time alone in the country.
The thought of horses brought a blush of warmth to her cheeks. She had managed to put herself together after that incident in the baggage car, but the pleasure Ashton had roused in her and the sensual hunger that lingered afterward now refused to be shut away in the inner strongbox she’d always trusted to contain it. Blast his hide. He was on her mind. He was on her skin. The taste of him was sure as hell on her lips. She found herself licking them and stopped, praying the countess hadn’t seen her do it.
Ashton Graham had freed her passion.
God help her, it felt wonderful. She was alive and hungry and eager for sensual encounter. Five long years ago she had forsworn men and pleasures of the flesh, and in the time since, she had come to believe that she had put that part of her life and its mistakes behind her. It was a shock to find her headstrong desires free and focused on the one man in all of England she had no business desiring.
He was Duke Arthur’s brother, for Heaven’s sake. Everything served the title, he said, even him. Especially him.
Which meant he was up to something. Most likely, preventing her from marrying his brother. He said she was beautiful and had excellent manners when she decided to use them. And he found her desirable, which meant his objections to her marrying Arthur had to do with that pile of “family obligation” horse manure he’d warned her about. It boiled down to one miserable conclusion; he believed what his wretched family believed. She wasn’t good enough for his precious brother.
With all of her money, hard-won manners, and willingness to sacrifice for her family and the dukedom, she wasn’t any more respected on this side of the Atlantic than she had been on the other. She wasn’t one of them.
Maybe it truly did come down to blood and history, and if it did, she had to somehow prove to him and to the duke’s arrogant family that she was one of them . . . that whatever was in her blood, it was potent enough to meet their damned challenge and win.
By the time they arrived at Marlton, the Earl of Albemarle’s seat, she was sitting straighter and her eyes were narrowed ever so slightly. Determination had relaxed the knot in her stomach and replaced her anxiety. She felt fortified by her own logic and a fresh conviction that the next man to set hands to her naked body would be her husband.
* * *
They were greeted in the marble-clad center hall of Marlton by Lady Regina herself, surrounded by a dozen uniformed staff and portraits of hundreds of years of ancestors. The two countesses hugged warmly and their obvious affection for each other put Daisy at ease. She was heartened to think that maybe there could be true friendships among nobles, after all.
“Delighted to meet you, my dear,” tall, slender Lady Regina said as she gave Daisy a kiss on each cheek. “We’ve heard intriguing snippets about our dear Evelyn’s protégée. All good, I assure you. I can’t wait to hear all about New York and Philadelphia and the great American West.” She turned to Red. “And you must be . . .”
“Redmond Strait.” The countess stepped in to finish the introductions. “Our dear Daisy’s uncle.”
Lady Regina’s eyes widened. “The cowboy!”
“Well, not exactly that, ma’am.” He caught the countess’s look of dismay at his address and corrected it. “I mean, milady. I owned half interest in the ranch, but mostly I did the prospectin’ and openin’ mines.”
“No matter.” Lady Regina waved away his modesty. “You’re from the untamed West and that will be good enough for the earl.” She leaned closer to him with a twinkle in her eye. “He is mad about cowboys and reads everything he can about them.”
“I look forward to meetin’ yer husband, milady. Sounds like a straight-shootin’ kind of a fella.”
The Lady of Albemarle fairly giggled with delight.
“I’m sure you’re exhausted from the trip down from Oxford, so I’ve planned a simple family dinner tonight. Just the earl, myself, and the dowager—his mother.” She scooped up Daisy’s and the countess’s arms in hers to lead them up the sweeping staircase that dominated the hall, leaving Red to fall in behind. “But we have another guest arriving tomorrow and I thought we should have a few of our friends in for a little party.” She lowered her head toward Daisy as they climbed the stairs. “I’ve never made his acquaintance myself, but he corresponds with the earl regularly. He’s something of a naturalist, they say, the young Duke of Meridian.”
Daisy and the countess stopped dead on the stairs, dragging Lady Regina to a halt between them. The countess was too stunned to speak.
“But, Lady Regina, we’ve already met.” Daisy’s heart skipped beats and she was suddenly flushed with pleasure. “The duke and I are on the way to becoming . . . good friends.”
* * *
That same night, while Daisy was dining quietly with the Earl and Countess of Albemarle, Ashton sat in the bar of the Grand Hotel, located in the heart of the city of Bristol, drinking whiskey and brooding on the confusing nature of his interactions with the delectable Daisy Bumgarten. He was making headway with her, no doubt of that. His sincerity and forthrightness were slowly winning her over, and she was so susceptible to his usual seductions that it was almost crimin—
“What the devil are you doing here?” When he looked up, his uncle Bertram stood nearby with his fists propped at his waist, wearing a scowl. “You’re supposed to be”—he stepped closer and lowered his voice—“dealing with that Bamgarter wench.”
“Bumgarten,” he corrected, more sharply than he intended. “And I am dealing with her. She is here to look for records of one of her ancestors.”
“Here? In the hotel?” Bertram started and looked around the bar in horror.
“No. She is staying with one of the countess’s friends. I am here to ‘oversee’ her findings, remember? Using the meager funds I was provided for this project,” Ashton said irritably. “What are you doing here, Uncle?”
“I’ve come to meet your brother. He’s off on a beetle-headed search for some crawly bit or other, and he needs a minder. Insisted on coming down to see some gardens he’d heard about. We had no idea that Bamgarter chit would be here or we’d never have allowed it.”
“Bumgarten,” Ashton gritted out again. Bertram didn’t seem to notice. His reference to Artie needing a “minder” struck Ashton as mean and petty. But then, mean-and-petty was standard fare from the family grisards.
“You must keep your Aunt Sylvia apprised of your whereabouts.” Bertram looked around for a chair he deemed fit to support his precious arse and finally settled on one, glowering. “We understood you were in Oxford. What is the chit doing here?”
“I believe I just said. Tracking a potential ancestor, as required. The countess finagled them an invitation to stay with the Albemarles.”
“Albemarles?” Uncle Bertram’s jowls quivered under the impact of that name. “Good God, man. That’s where he’s headed.”
“Arthur?” Ashton’s jaw slacked in disbelief.
“Who else? He’s been invited to visit the gardens at Marlton . . . Albemarle’s pile.” Bertram’s ruddy face paled. “Good God. They’ll be there together.”