Cravats and Cards

 

THE DOWAGER LOOKED UP from her breakfast of eggs and toast as Juliet entered.

“Your Grace,” Juliet croaked through dry lips and curtsied.

“Juliet, dear, please have a seat.” The dowager nodded, indicating a chair at the table to her right. “It’s time we talk.”

Juliet drew a deep, shaking breath. Time we talk. There could be nothing good about those words. “Certainly, Your Grace,” she murmured as she obediently seated herself in the indicated chair.

“You’re from London, aren’t you?” the dowager asked as she set her hardboiled egg in its porcelain holder and expertly cracked the shell with a spoon.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Thatcher,” the woman said thoughtfully. “The Sussex Thatchers?”

Juliet blinked. Sussex Thatchers? Puzzled, she shook her head.

“Oh? Then where does your father live?” the dowager asked.

Juliet smiled a little sadly—she’d practiced this response in the mirror a hundred times—and said, “My father…has passed away, Your Grace.” It could have been the truth. Who knew?

The woman appeared surprised. “My condolences, child. And your mother?”

Juliet bit her lip, then caught the nervous action. “My mother—”

“Good morning, Mother,” Carrick’s deep voice interrupted.

Juliet sent him a smile of relief.

The dowager nodded at her son. “Catherine mentioned you’re sending us to London.” She gave her egg another whack.

“Aye. From the number of trunks I see littering the halls, you plan on taking the entire estate with you.” Carrick took his seat opposite the woman.

The dowager pursed her lips, then turned to Juliet and patted her hand. “Run along, dear. We’ll chat later.”

Juliet blinked, surprised at the friendliness of the gesture, but she didn’t have to be asked twice to leave. Studiously ignoring Carrick, she rose and hurried toward the door.

Before she reached the hallway, she caught Carrick words, “I have had enough of you interfering in my affairs,” before the door closed. 

Fear knotted Juliet’s stomach. The dowager knew of her son’s affair. She rounded a corner and ran straight into Catherine. The young girl grabbed her arms and swung her around in a dance.

“We’re off tomorrow,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, please say my new gown is ready. I simply must wear it on holiday.”

“You’re leaving?” Juliet asked, surprised.

“Carrick’s sending us to London,” she bubbled, falling into step as Juliet resumed her walk down the hallway. “And Brighton. Mother loves the sea. But I need my gown. Do say you can finish it before we leave tomorrow, please?”

Juliet smiled as they neared the stairs. “I’ll try my best.”

“Thank you, thank you a thousand times,” Catherine cried. “Now, I must pack.” She blew Juliet a kiss and raced up the stairs ahead of her.

Juliet watched her go with a smile and began climbing the stairs. Truth be told, she was relieved to be escaping the dowager’s censorious eye—along with the promised awkward chat concerning her parents. Hopefully, the woman would be too busy readying for the trip to continue the chat. Spending the day tucked away in the sewing room hemming Catherine’s gown would help ensure that happened.

The day proved busier than expected, not only with finishing Catherine’s gown but with mending various day and morning dresses the dowager sent up for repair. Juliet felt sure that both the dowager and her daughter had packed every article of clothing they possessed.

Twice, Carrick dropped by. But the hustle and bustle drove him off with no more than a look—a sultry, seductive one—passing between them. Finally, the clock struck midnight, and Juliet rose stiffly from her chair. Her fingers ached, but she released a sigh of satisfaction from a job well done.

It didn’t take long to tidy the room. She tossed the last spool of thread into her sewing basket and reached to shut the lid. A glimpse of silk caught her eye and she smiled as she slipped a finger over Carrick’s cravat, still safely tucked away. Hopefully, he’d be waiting in her bed. As tired as she was, she would wake the moment his lips caressed her skin.

To her disappointment, she arrived to find her bed empty.

Perhaps he thought her too tired. Juliet considered seeking him in his room, but with her luck of late, she would run straight into the dowager.

With a sigh, she undressed, pulled her night rail over her shoulders and dropped into bed.

She was nearly asleep before her head touched the pillow.

* * *

Juliet awoke to the noon sun warming her face. She sat bolt upright, heart pounding. She’d overslept. The dowager and her daughter had left for London hours ago. She dressed in a hurry and rushed downstairs on the off chance they hadn’t yet departed. The last thing she needed was for the dowager to find a reason to dislike her.

At the bottom step, she encountered one of the maids.

“The duchess? Catherine?” Juliet asked, pausing to catch her breath.

“Lordy, miss, they left at dawn,” the maid replied and shuffled off.

Juliet blew out a long breath and bit her lip. Oh well. No doubt, the dowager had noticed her missing from the line of staff biding them a safe journey. She could only hope the woman would forget the matter before she saw her next.

She glanced around, noting how quiet the place seemed, then started back up the stairs. She stopped in the library, hoping to see Carrick, but the room stood empty. With a sigh, she closed the door and headed for the sewing room. The dowager and her daughter might be gone, but she still had plenty of dresses left to sew.

Juliet slowed at sight of the open sewing room door. Had she forgotten to close it last night? She entered the room and frowned. The partially sewn dresses and her sewing basket were missing. She glanced around, noting the chests of fabric missing, as well. As she slowly pivoted, her gaze snagged on her sewing basket sitting on the floor near the inner door that led to an adjoining room.

She hurried to the basket, but to her surprise, discovered it empty. Her gaze caught on a pair of scissors peeking out from the bottom of the door. As she touched the door it swung open slightly. A pincushion sat on the rug in the center of the adjoining room. Six feet farther away lay a spool of thread.

“This is exceedingly odd,” she murmured and retrieved her tools, then noticed a second spool of thread near the far door.

She paused, then smiled. This was a breadcrumb trail. Carrick’s doing. It had to be. With a heart growing lighter by the step, she followed the trail of pincushions, thimbles and thread spools down the servants’ stairs and out a side door leading to the castle’s side lawn.

The trail led across the grass. Near where the garden path vanished behind a copse of trees, a length of muslin was artfully draped over a bush. She frowned and hurried to rescue the fabric before it stained.

What was the man thinking? Still, she found herself smiling as she folded the fabric and placed it atop her sewing basket. She saw the playing cards, a line leading down the center of the path and disappearing behind the trees.

She’d missed him the night before. Her smile widened as she followed the trail, collecting the cards along the way until the path gave way to a private garden. A gazebo nestled under an ancient oak, and Carrick practiced archery nearby, wearing only a white shirt and a pair of form-fitting, dark gray breeches.

She paused to admire his muscular buttocks and powerful thighs. Her fingers itched to slide over those firm, warm muscles. She’d never thought of a man’s buttocks and thighs as particularly fascinating before.

He bent to remove an arrow from a quiver lying on a table and she watched the shift and flex of his thigh muscle before wrenching her eyes away. A throb pulsed between her thighs.

He lowered his bow and she lifted her gaze to his face. His eyebrow raised in amusement. Heavens, she could only be glad he wasn’t privy to her thoughts. He’d be prancing around the estate in smug satisfaction for a week—maybe longer.

A mischievous grin crossed his face as he crooked a finger and motioned for her to join him. When she arrived, he took the sewing basket and set it on the ground as she eyed the target, taking note of the half-dozen arrows clustered around the bullseye.

“You have astonishing marksmanship,” she said.

A humorous glint entered his eye. “Aye, my shaft is hard and its aim true.”

She jerked her eyes back to his, forcing herself not to look at his crotch. The man was shameless. She couldn’t prevent a smile. then recalled that she’d overslept.  “I fear I failed in bidding the duchess and Catherine farewell,” she confessed.

He chuckled. “Mother insisted you catch up on your rest. She wasn’t offended, if that’s what concerns you.”

That was difficult to believe, but she smiled anyway. “Well, I’m well rested now.”

His eyebrow lifted as he reached past her to prop his bow against the gazebo’s nearest wall. He murmured, “For now, aye?”

She lowered her lashes.

“I found a most curious item in your sewing basket.” He bent and retrieved something from his quiver.

His cravat. She took the fabric, suddenly tongue-tied.

“You kept it,” he said.

She lifted her eyes to his. Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. He smelled of fresh air and the sandalwood spice of his cravat. She closed her eyes and melted into his embrace, a thrilling kiss soft, tender, and sweet.

A kiss that ended far too soon.

He pulled away and she opened her mouth to object, but he surprised her by swinging her up into his arms.

“I’m of a mind to taste your charms, lass.” He peered down at her through hooded eyes. “Here. Now.”

She shivered. “Here?”

He carried her into the gazebo and lay her on a plaid spread across the weathered wooden floor.

“Carrick,” she said with mock sternness.

He shrugged and dropped down by her side. Objections died on her lips as he covered her lips and sucked her tongue into his mouth. A sizzle of heat shot through her inner core and clenched her sex.

He loosened her chignon and threaded his fingers through her curls as he kissed a path from her lips to her neck before pausing to suck the tender flesh beneath her ear. She slid her hands over his arms. Muscle shifted beneath her fingers as his palm skimmed her waist. He covered a breast and kneaded the soft flesh. Heat pooled in her belly. She arched her hips.

“You’re more than ready, aren’t you?” He chuckled.

“Take me,” she whispered.

He rose to his knees, rucked up her dress, then slipped her under drawers down and off.

“Open your legs for me, lass,” he murmured as he leaned over and kissed her eyes closed.

She obliged, enjoying the heightened sensations of his lips as he planted another line of kisses along her jawline and down her throat.

She tensed in anticipation of him levering himself over her. A warm hand clasped her thigh. A quiver radiated through her stomach. He clasped her other thigh and Juliet shivered. The man was a magician. She discerned the shift of his weight on her legs, then gasped when warm lips closed over her sex.

Juliet shoved upright, then froze at sight of Carrick’s head between her legs. While she’d heard plenty of Aphrodite’s ladies speak of taking a man’s member into their mouths, she’d never heard of a man doing the same to a woman. His tongue flicked her engorged nub. Pleasure rocketed through her.

“Carrick,” she breathed.

He shifted so that he could look at her, but his mouth continued its wicked work. She squirmed when he sucked her. He laughed against her flesh. The sound tickled heightened senses.

“Lay back and close your eyes, lass. Let me please you.”

Please her? Close her eyes? He suckled harder. She didn’t think she could tear her gaze from his dark head buried between her thighs even if she wanted to. He drew his tongue from the base of her channel, up through her wet folds and circled her sex.

A wordless whimper escaped her lips. Pleasure mounted. He wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled her tighter against his mouth. Palms flat on the floorboard, she closed her eyes, braced herself and pulsed against him.

Her orgasm exploded through her, stealing her breath as her body spasmed, the force of her pleasure ripping a cry from her. “Carrick. Oh, God, Carrick.”

Juliet collapsed back against the wood. He stroked her until the last shudder subsided, leaving her weak-kneed. "I couldn’t last long,” she whispered, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

He chuckled and straightened. “Your passion is what I love most about you, Juliet.”

Love. The word slipped from his tongue so naturally, yet hung in the air between them like lead.

He unbuttoned his breeches. His engorged member sprang free. Her heart pounded. He settled between her legs and buried himself inside her to the hilt. Juliet wrapped her arms around his neck as he thrust with increasing urgency. His breath bathed her flesh where neck met shoulder. Shivers raced across her flesh. His breath hitched. Pleasure rippled through her. He thrust harder and groaned as her channel flooded with his seed.

Her heart thundered. She would never get enough of this man. He stroked slower and a strange sense of need rippled through her. The unexpected need to cry surfaced. Juliet buried her face in his shoulder until, at last, he relaxed. He breathed deep, his chest expanding against hers. Juliet tightened her hold around his neck in the moment before he rose onto his elbows. He caught her chin with his hand and kissed her slow and tender. Finally, he broke the kiss and rolled off her, then propped himself up on an elbow.

Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair before he tucked a curl behind her ear. “Now that we have Lennoxlove House to ourselves, I’ll be making love to you in every room and against every tree.”

She lifted her eyebrows and laughed. “We’re surrounded by a forest, Carrick.”

His grin softened into a warm smile. “Then we’ll be busy, won’t we?”