No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella (8 page)

“I do, as well,” he said. He glanced around the room. “Does everyone who wishes to play know how to play?”

Sophronia shook her head. “I do not, but I don’t have to play.”

“Don’t be silly,” he replied. “It’s simple. We choose a topic, and then we begin to discuss it, only we have to start each sentence with the next letter in the alphabet. So if we start at the letter G, the next person has to say something beginning with H, and so on.”

She still looked puzzled, but shrugged. “I will figure it out, I suppose.”

“Yes, you will.” His Sophy was clever, she would catch on quickly.

And when had he come to think of her as his Sophy?

“What topic shall we choose?”

Mrs. Green had the answer, of course. “Christmas, naturally. Mr. Archer, you shall begin. The choice of letter is yours.”

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said. He nodded to Miss Green. “The next letter is N. ”

“No room at the inn is what Mary and Joseph heard on their journey.”

“Or was it that there was no
groom
at the inn,” Sophy said, shooting him a mischievous glance.

Well-played, he thought, smothering a grin.

“Perhaps we will all get our heart’s desire,” the viscountess’s daughter said with a sly look.

“Queen Victoria might issue a proclamation,” the viscountess said.

“Really?”

That was his mother. He was proud she had come up with something so quickly.

“So when you mention the queen, you should also mention her husband.”

“That’s Prince Albert, is it not?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Now it seemed everyone was joining in the game, without regard for whose turn it was. It was actually fun to watch their faces as they thought of a sentence for the letter, and Jamie felt as though he finally understood why a house party of this sort was enjoyable. Not that he wished to do it all the time, but it had its appeal—the camaraderie of good conversation, company, and an overriding belonging to the season that made him feel relaxed, and as though he might not jump out of his skin at any moment.

Or, he thought as he glanced over at her, that was just Sophy’s influence.

He had been a gentleman the night before, and while he wasn’t precisely regretting that—well, never mind, he was, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

But if she said she wanted to explore further, then who was he to stand in the way of adventure?

He’d just have to let her make the next move in the game.

Cunctation:

1. Procrastination; delay.

2. The inability to pronounce certain consonants.

3. A confused state of mind.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

W
hat was the protocol for visiting a gentleman by yourself in his bedroom?

Scratch that, there wasn’t any such thing. At least not that she knew of; perhaps she should have befriended the viscountess’s daughter, it seemed as though she knew far more about such things, the male and female thing, than Sophronia did.

Although nearly anybody would know more than Sophronia, so that didn’t signify.

She drew her wrapper around her, tying the knot to close it as she slid her feet into her slippers.

It was nearly one o’clock, and the house had been quiet for over an hour. The games had continued all evening, and they had been fun, she had to admit, but she kept wishing everyone would just get tired so she could get on with what she wanted to do.

With him.

Even thinking about it made her breath catch—and here she was thinking about actually doing it? What if she was unable to breathe entirely? What if she expired in his bedroom from lack of oxygen, and he had to explain to everyone how she came to be there and then she really would be dead, and Mrs. Archer would be sad and Mrs. Green would be delighted and—and—

“Breathe, Sophronia.” He’d said that to her when they were just embarking on this masquerade. It was good advice then and it was good advice now.

She stepped into the hallway, thankful that his bedroom was only a few doors down from hers. It was dark, and she didn’t want to end up sprawled on the floor because she’d missed her footing.

That would be even awkwarder—for her, at least—than expiring in his bedroom. And yes, she knew that wasn’t a word.

She reached his door without either fainting or falling, and counted it as a victory already. And then she raised her hand to knock, but the door whooshed open, and she was pulled inside.

“I was hoping,” he began, before lowering his mouth onto hers.

She twined her arms around his neck, remembering to breathe through her nose, wanting to burrow up into his skin and get subsumed in him, his warmth, his scent, his size.

He ran his hands down her back, then right under her buttocks, lifting her off her feet and pressing her to his chest. She gasped, and he chuckled, walking backward before lying down on the bed with her still on his body. As though she weighed nearly nothing.

“I’ll smush you,” she said, when she was able to lift her mouth.

He smirked at her, his hands still on her arse, his blue eyes alit with what she very much thought was delighted pleasure. “Of course you won’t,” he said. “Haven’t you learned by now that I am much stronger than I look? And if I do say so myself, I already look awfully strong.”

His tone was so smug and sure of himself she had no choice but to be amused. And to be certain she wouldn’t crush him in her ardor.

“Now what are you doing visiting my bedroom at such a late hour?” He grinned, and she couldn’t help but grin back. “Maybe that is the topic for an Alphabet Minute game.” He kissed her briefly. “What are you doing here, Miss Sophronia?”

X. The next letter was X, which he knew, the competitive wretch. “Ex-amining the betrothed,” she replied.

He shook his head, but didn’t challenge her. “You like what you see, then?”

Zed. Whose idea was it to play this game when she could be kissing him? “Zounds, how could I not?” She shifted so she could splay her hand on his chest. His remarkably broad chest.

“A wise choice, my lady,” he replied.

“But why are you still talking when you could be kissing me?” There, it was out in the open.

“Consider it done,” he replied, pulling her to him so their bodies touched nearly everywhere.

S
he was here. He’d nearly given up hope that she would come, but here she was. He was relieved he had decided not to chase after her—this would be her choice, not his, just as her wanting a cottage in a small village somewhere was her choice, as well, and it was within his means to give it to her.

But meanwhile, before all that, there was this. The gift of her.

He relished her kiss, plundered her mouth with his tongue as his hands roamed over her curves—she was slender, yes, but she had all the right curves, and those curves fit perfectly in his hands.

She was caressing his chest, running her palm over his nipples, making him want to groan and laugh all at the same time.

And have wonderful sublime sexual relations with her, but that went without saying.

Only he should say something, shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t be honorable to just assume something because a dressed-for-bed woman had appeared at one’s door in the middle of the night?

Damn it. “Are you sure about this?” he said, murmuring into her ear.

She stilled and buried her nose in his neck.
Please say yes, please say yes
, he thought.

And then she licked his skin as her palm continued her travels on his chest, down his side, and at his waist. So close to right there it was maddening and wonderful and excruciating all at the same time.

“Does that answer your question?” she said, accompanying her words with a low laugh.

“Absolutely,” he replied, taking her and flipping her onto her back, swallowing her noise of surprise with his mouth.

Part of him—no surprise which part—wanted to just take her, slide his hand up her leg, taking her night rail with it, exposing what he fully anticipated to be long legs.

He’d never been with a woman who was this tall before. In fact, he’d never been with a woman who was this smart, who was this remarkable, who was able to soothe him while at the same time making his heart race and his throat tighten and do other things to other parts of his body.

No surprise which part there, either.

But this wasn’t just about him, and it would all be so much sweeter if he took his time.

She was gazing up at him, a warm, sensuous look on her face, less like a goddess now and entirely like a woman. A woman who knew what she wanted, and thankfully, what she seemed to want was him.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked in a husky voice.

Well, he could answer that. “You.”

She laughed and swatted his arm. “We have so much in common, I was thinking about you, too. Namely,” she continued, arching an eyebrow, “when you were going to get on with it.”

That was so entirely unexpected he burst out laughing. He didn’t think he’d ever laughed while engaged in all of this sort of activity—a new experience for him, as it would be a new experience for her. Albeit not the same new experience.

“Get on with it?” he repeated. “If you have somewhere to be, please do let me know, and I will hasten the activity.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, and she grinned.

“I don’t have anywhere to be, but I believe you do,” she said, winking at him.
Winking
! That was even more unexpected than her urging him to just get on with it.

And he didn’t know if he should get on with ravishing her, as he dearly wished to do, and it seemed she did, as well, or he wanted to stop and laugh until he cried.

Definitely a new experience.

S
ophronia had never felt more daring in her life. Which made sense, since she had never
been
so daring in her life. Not just coming to his room clad in her night rail and wrapper, but encouraging him to—to
do
things she very much wanted him to do to her.

His expression when she urged him to get on with it was delightful—so surprised, and almost affronted that she would dare to issue a command.

“You appear to be this—this regal vision, all elegance and, and regality.”

She was touched by his compliment, even though he’d repeated himself.

“But you’re not that at all,” he continued, leaving Sophronia to wonder just what he was going to say. “You’re”—he put his hand on her cheek, his thumb on her mouth, his gaze on her face—“you’re clever and impudent and ready for an adventure.” He smiled and stroked her mouth. “And I am happy to provide it for you.”

And then he kissed her, but he didn’t just kiss her, because that would be too weak a word for what he was doing to her. He was imprinting her, claiming her body as his own with every touch. And currently he was touching her waist, his fingers splayed so they were nearly touching her breast, an occurrence she didn’t realize had been entirely lacking in her life but now she didn’t know how she had lived without it.

Touch me there
, she wanted to say, only her mouth was occupied, kissing him back, learning his taste and smell and feel.

She had somehow wrapped her arms around him and was stroking his strong, solid back, pulling him into her, even though he was practically on top of her already.

His—that part was pressed into her, a hard, quite fervent reminder of what was going to happen, or else she would actually expire.

She heard herself moan, low and deep in her throat, her whole body feeling as though it had been zapped with an electric current. Only the electric current was named Jamie, and she hadn’t been thoroughly zapped quite yet.

This was the Christmas gift she had really wanted when she thought she wanted a kiss. This—this
ownership
, this entire subsumption into feeling, not thinking at all.

Even though she was thinking. But all she was thinking about was him.

Oh, God, and now his hand was on her breast, his finger rubbing her nipple, causing spirals of a slow, sensuous heat to curl through her body. And his other hand—well, that was drawing her night rail up, his palm on her shin, her knee, her thigh, and then—

She couldn’t help but gasp as his fingers reached there, and he broke the kiss, the expression in his eyes both fiercely desiring and concerned. “Are you—is this all right?” he asked, speaking in a ragged voice.

“Mm-hm,” she replied, knowing that actual speech might be beyond her. At this moment, at least.

“You’re so ready for me,” he murmured, his fingers touching her, finding her wet, which would have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been so thoroughly determined not to be embarrassed.

Not at this moment, at least; later on, then she could be embarrassed, when she was an old spinster living with her chatty maid in a cottage somewhere. But she would also be able to look back at this whole thing and be delighted that she had been bold enough to say what she wanted, and to get it.

“I am ready.” She spoke against his mouth. “So why don’t you get on with it?”

He half laughed, half groaned, and she stopped being able to think as he pushed her legs apart and something that was not his hand was at her entrance, and it felt wonderful, if entirely frightening, and made her breathless in all sorts of ways.

Aubade:

1. A jelly made with quince.

2. To lean back.

3. A song or poem greeting the dawn.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

H
ad she thought before she might die if he didn’t do all this to her?

Now she had to wonder if she would die because he had—of pleasure, of overwhelming emotion, of just feeling glorious and as though the first part of your life was in muted shades of gray, and now the world was colored in the most vivid of hues.

Yes, it hurt at first, and it definitely felt as though it wouldn’t entirely fit, but Jamie was patient, even though she could tell it was a strain.

And then, eventually, he thrust home, and she felt him all the way inside, sending echoes of pleasure through her body.

It wasn’t just mindless pleasure, either; that is, she felt mindless, but he was mindful, moving carefully and clearly concentrating on how she was feeling, and what felt good.

My goodness, did it feel good.

And it felt as though it were building to something even better.

“That’s it, love.” He kissed her hard and fierce, and then lowered his head to her neck, his grasp tightening as he continued to thrust, in and out, in a maddeningly wonderful rhythm.

She felt it start to pick her up and sweep her away, knowing it was impossible to stop, not that she would be idiotic enough to stop it at all.

“Ohhh,” she said as she felt the escalation making its inexorable way to somewhere, she had no idea.

And then it was as though that same electric current sparked through her, shooting tendrils of pleasure through her entire body, making her boneless and subject to all her feelings and emotions.

She half opened her eyes and saw his smirk of satisfaction, and then he got a look of intense concentration on his face as he increased his rhythm, pushing harder and faster until all she could feel was him, thrusting deep, hearing the sound of their bodies crashing together, his grunts and moans which managed to sound intriguing and not ridiculous.

Until finally, he thrust in and stayed there, his whole body shaking, his hair falling on her face, their bodies touching completely everywhere.

She never wanted to move.

And it seemed, after a few moments, that neither did he.

That would be uncomfortable after an hour or so.

She wriggled a bit under him and he withdrew, rolling onto his side and gasping. “Oh, my lord, Sophycakes.” He had his eyes closed, but his face bore a smile.

She had done that to him. Or more accurately, they had done that together and this was the result. “Sophronia,” she corrected, hearing the own laughter in her voice.

She wasn’t expecting his next words.

“If there is a—a result from this, you will let me know, won’t you?” He placed his palm on her stomach, and she gaped at him, not quite sure what he meant, until she did.

Well, that was hardly romantic. Although it was her fault for engaging in it without thinking of the consequences—the result, as he’d put it.

“Yes, of course,” she said in a stiff tone of voice.

“Did I upset you?” And now, damn it, he sounded concerned. And she felt like she’d been irresponsible and pettish, where only a few minutes ago she’d had the most blissful experience of her life.

Well, and that was life after all, wasn’t it? Blissful experience followed by mundane idiocy. Namely, hers.

“I’m fine, I should go back to my room.”

“You can stay for a bit, can’t you?” It sounded as though he really did wish she would stay, and she wanted to exclaim at how remarkable it was, that this handsome, strong, smart man was wanting her to stay for a bit longer when all she wanted to do was run off.

“I shouldn’t, because if we fall asleep and someone finds us, then we will actually have to get married.”

A part of her wanted him to say that it would be fine if that happened, that now that they’d done all this that they should get married. Of course the other part was in vehement disagreement with that, because she’d come to his room without any kind of expectation, and she would never want him to regret this moment.

A long silence during which the two parts warred inside Sophronia’s head about what she wanted. No accord had been reached when he finally spoke.

“And I know you don’t want that,” he said at last. What did he mean? Did he want her to argue with him about it? Tell him she did want it?

She wasn’t the one who should be arguing about anything right now. It wasn’t as though she went around doing this kind of thing all the time, and knew what to say and do afterward.

Even if you were absolutely and totally in love with the person in question.

Oh no.
Oh no.

“I have to go,” she said hurriedly, pushing herself up off the bed and shaking her night rail back down to her feet. Because if she stayed she might tell him how she felt, and then he would feel obligated to marry her, and then he would eventually resent her, and that was not at all the bargain they’d made.

He stood also, a dazed expression on his face. “Fine, yes. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, his words getting more clipped as he spoke.

“Good night, James,” she said, turning to give him one last look.

“Good night, Sophronia,” he replied.

W
hat the hell just happened? He’d had the best sex of his life, he’d been in a post-coital bliss when responsibility made him speak, and apparently he’d done the wrong thing.

He thought the men in this situation were the ones who didn’t want to discuss such things as contraception and prevention. And what if there was a child? He would want to know, and he would want to do the right thing.

Which he would want to do anyway.

That was the reality of it, wasn’t it?

He flopped back on the bed, letting his arms drop to the side, a wash of what might have been heartbreak flooding his senses.

Because he’d never felt like this before—this devastation at the thought of not seeing her after this, of knowing she was out there on her own, in her little cottage that he’d bought for her.

Was it possible he’d gone and fallen in love with her? His pretend betrothed? The one person from whom he didn’t wish to escape? The one person who knew that his reckless spirit made it impossible for him to commit to anything—or anyone?

Damn it, he had. He was in love with her, his Sophy, his Sophronia. Who wasn’t his at all.

Well, if it were possible to have a more ludicrously appalling situation he didn’t know what it would be.

But what he did know was that now that all this had happened, he did not want to let this go. He couldn’t let her go.

He would just have to find a way to convince her he meant it.

T
he next morning he woke up surprisingly alert—probably because he had a woman to persuade he loved her. He’d thought about it for at least an hour, and finally settled on something, something that would hopefully be enough.

Or he’d have to head off into the wilds alone, and he did not want to do that. Not now, not ever again. Not now that he knew what it might be like to be with her.

Thank goodness he’d paid attention when she was speaking—not that he wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t thought it important, but he hadn’t recalled ever paying so much attention to a woman before. When he wasn’t in bed with her, at least.

That’s how he knew she was different, that she was the one who would intrigue him until they were old and doddering. And until they were old and doddering, he wanted to be with her, to hear her soft moan as he kissed her, feel her curves and skin and watch her descend staircases dressed in fabulous gowns.

“Good morning, everyone.” He addressed the room, his gaze alighting—of course—on her. The house was bustling with activity; the villagers were to come gaze on the Greens’ magnanimous splendor and perhaps drink a cup of wine before returning home.

She looked startled as he spoke, perhaps because of what they’d done the night before, but also perhaps because he wasn’t usually so . . .
sprightly
, if he could call it that, this early in the morning.

He grinned at her, loving how her cheeks pinked up. She had to be thinking about what they had done. If she weren’t, then he had seriously misjudged his skill in the bedroom.

“I am planning to go to the vicar’s today to view his collection of rare books.” He paused. “Sophronia, you needn’t accompany me, I think it would be lovely if you stayed here with my mother. I’ll return when the party is to occur. Four o’clock, is it?”

Mrs. Green nodded, not looking pleased, but likely too busy to argue or to try to send her daughter along to accompany him.

Sophronia just blinked, and her face froze. He knew she was likely thinking he didn’t want to be with her, not after what had happened the night before. He wished he could reassure her, but there was no way to say that without letting his plans for later slip. That is, perhaps there was, but he wasn’t confident he could do it.

“Fine, that sounds pleasant.” She spoke in a tight tone of voice, and he wanted to laugh at how prickly and goddesslike she was being, only he really didn’t think that would do anything for what he wanted from her.

Namely, forever. He wanted forever from her, and he hoped he had thought of the best way to do it.

“W
here are you and Jamie planning on settling down?” Mrs. Archer looked hopefully at Sophronia, who wished Jamie—James—Mr. Archer—had not put her in this position. Actually, she was starting to regret she’d been in any kind of position with him, especially the one last night where he was—well, suffice to say she was feeling irked.

Had he planned on that? So it would be easier to say goodbye when this was all over?

It wasn’t as though she expected anything, but she had hoped he would seek her out and let her know how he was feeling. Unless he didn’t want to let her know what he was feeling, which was why he had gone to Mr. Chandler’s house to look at books she knew he had no interest in, for goodness’ sake.

And he’d made it impossible for her to go with him, encouraging her instead to stay here with his mother. The mother he was even now duping with her presence, and Sophronia didn’t even want to think how the woman would react when she heard Sophronia had died.

And so, though she was angry and hurt and disappointed, she had to admit it wasn’t his fault. And she was absolutely and totally in love with him. Still.

Oh, and here she was leaving Mrs. Archer just blinking at her, holding her teacup and regarding Sophronia with a patient look.

“That is something we have to discuss,” she replied at last.

Mrs. Archer nodded as though that actually came close to answering her question. Which it did not.

“I was speaking with your lady’s maid, Maria she said her name was?” Mrs. Archer didn’t wait for a reply. “She is a lovely girl, I was asking her for ideas for—well, never mind that,” she said with a knowing look, “but she did say she always hoped to live in a small cottage somewhere, away from the bustle of London.” Mrs. Archer sighed. “And I told her that’s what we had talked about, and how much I would love to do that. Only if Jamie could find his way to visit, of course, but I would dearly love to have some peace and quiet.”

“Yes, that would be lovely.” Although the more she thought about it, the more Sophronia wished for some adventure—she’d spent most of her life indoors with her father going through books and reading and visiting. She wanted to go somewhere, just be active and engaged, and not observing.

Perhaps she would find that in her cottage? She didn’t hold out much hope for it, but it was definitely better than the poultry she’d anticipated just a few weeks ago. So there was that, at least.

S
he didn’t have any thoughts that hadn’t revolved around her fake betrothed and the long endless stretch of loneliness that was to be her future for the next few hours. The house party had dispersed, and Sophronia had seized on the excuse to go up to her room to write some letters.

That she had no one to write to was depressing in and of itself.

She found she was looking forward to the villagers’ arrival—she did love seeing people enjoying the holidays, even if the people weren’t her.

And wasn’t she the most maudlin person ever? She did have a future, thanks to him, that ensured her independence. She wouldn’t have to be a poor relation, and next year at this time she would perhaps have found a few friends with whom she could share the spirit of the season.

So when she heard the first arrivals, she descended the staircase from her room, feeling a warmth that was very different from the warmth she’d had in Jamie’s arms, in his bed, the night before.

“Welcome, everyone!” Mr. Green seemed to have roused himself, as well, and was greeting the townsfolk at the entrance, a huge smile on his face. Even Mrs. Green looked festive, albeit still disapproving when someone was a bit too cheery.

Sophronia took a cup of wine from a sideboard in the hallway and walked to the large room where the trees were decorated.

She smiled as she heard the audible gasps from the visitors as they caught first sight of them.

And they truly were impressive—all of them were lit, the afternoon sun competing with the glow of the candles for which could be the brightest. There were tables laden with food ringing the edges of the room, and in one corner stood a pianoforte with someone playing a variety of holiday carols.

It gave her a lump in her throat. This, this was truly the spirit of the season, the emotion that she wished she could keep in her heart all year long, even after this magical time was over, because this was what made people joyous. The company of others, simple, quiet beauty, and delightful music. Perhaps accompanied by some food and some wine, always accompanied with the satisfaction of being at peace with oneself.

No matter what would happen from now on, she would be at peace, she promised herself as she gazed around the room.
Merry Christmas, Sophronia
, she whispered softly under her breath.

“M
rs. Green, if you don’t mind, I would like to propose a game for the evening.” She hadn’t gotten a chance to speak with him, not privately, and despite her earlier feelings she was currently vacillating between utter despair that it seemed he didn’t care about what they had done the night before and triumph at herself that she had initiated it in the first place. She was not proud of that, but she knew she would return to that earlier, peaceful place eventually.