A Certain Wolfish Charm (25 page)

   "Really?" she sniffed.

   He had the nerve to chuckle. "Really."

   She moved in his lap again, turning toward him.

   "That's it," he groaned. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Simon's last thought was that if she wiggled in his arms one more time, he would have to take her. He would have to push her skirts up and pull her down on him. He would teach his little innocent about making love in a carriage.

   Then she moved. And he had his opportunity. He lifted her from his lap only briefly, ignoring her gasp as he gathered her skirts in a ball around her hips and drew her down to straddle him. He let her skirts fall.

   "This is highly improper," she sniffed, pulling away from him again. He tightened his hold on her bottom, pulling her forward to rock against his length.

   "
That
is improper," he whispered just before his

lips touched her neck. She leaned into his kiss, so he immediately knew he had her interest. Yet she still had a point to prove, he assumed.

   "Let me up, Simon," she whispered. Her hot breath blew across his ear.

   "I'll let you up," he whispered as he reached beneath her to unfasten his trousers and pull himself free. He grasped her bottom and pulled her forward to ride the ridge of him. The dampness of her soaked him through her drawers.

   He reached beneath her and tore them, moving the offending fabric out of the way so he could surge against her moist heat.

   "Simon!" she shrieked when she heard the fabric tear.

   "I'll buy new ones for you," he chuckled. "Or you can just go without so they'll never be in my way again."

   Simon tugged her bodice until he could see the rigid peaks of her nipples.

   "You do want me," he said as he took a peak into his mouth and began to tease the other with his fingertips.

   "I don't want to," she cried, arching her back and threading her hands in his hair to keep him at her breasts.

   "You don't want me to be inside you?" he asked, searching her face for the answer.

   "No, I don't want to want you," she whispered, just before she inched forward on him.

   "But you do." It was a fact. She was soaking wet and purring on top of him, even if she still wanted to deny it.

   "I do," she breathed and then touched her lips to his. Her tongue entered his mouth at the same time he entered her body. She moved to accommodate him, sliding down his length.

   "Easy," he whispered. If she moved too fast, he would explode long before she finished.

   "Nothing with you is easy," she whispered, her breath catching as he took her hips in his hands and raised and lowered her on top of him.

   This was how he wanted to see her always. Completely uninhibited. Her eyes half-closed with passion. Trusting him.

   Simon reached between them, his hand stealing into her curls to rub her heat. As she rode him, tight as a glove and much silkier, he toyed with her. She gasped and clenched around him when he found the source of her pleasure. Within moments, she was crying out against his shoulder as her body erupted around him. He quickly followed.

   Simon pulled her against his chest to stroke her naked back. She drew deep breaths against him, her breath tickling his chin.

   "I can't believe you would use me like that," he said, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. He couldn't help but laugh when she balled up her fist and hit his chest.

   "Quiet," she whispered. "Let me enjoy this before more of your secrets intrude."

Lily awoke to a bright stream of morning light that poured in through a crack between the drawn shade and the carriage window. She blinked her eyes open, realizing she'd slept in Simon's arms all night. His dark head rested against the wall of the coach, a slight rumbling snore escaping him. Even rumpled and unshaven, he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen. And he was her husband.

   Her husband.

   That thought brought a smile to her lips as Lily leaned back against his massive chest. Never in all her days did she think a man could make her feel such passion. Never in all her days did she think she'd ever fall in love. She certainly never thought she'd marry, not a man like Simon anyway. Yet she had inexplicably done so.

   She sighed, wondering if it was possible he felt the same for her. Then the unwanted image of Teresa Hamilton flashed in her mind and Lily's smile vanished. She doubted the sight of the stunning widow wrapping herself around Simon would ever leave her mind.

   "A world of emotion crosses your face, love. Did

you know that?" Simon's baritone voice startled her, and Lily nearly leapt from his lap. However, his arm tightened around her, securing her safely against him. "Good morning, Your Grace."

   Lily offered him a shy smile. "How did you ever get accustomed to being called that?"

   He kissed her brow and then grinned at her. "I never thought about it. My father was the duke before me, and I always knew I would assume his role. Does the title make you uncomfortable?"

   "A little," she admitted. "My father
wasn't
a duke."

   Simon chuckled. "Don't worry, love. Soon you won't even cringe when someone calls you that. It'll just take a little time."

   "Are you certain?"

   He laughed again. "Every woman I know wants to be a duchess, Lily. There must be something to having the role."

   "Hmm," she agreed. "Having you." Apparently she was daring this morning. It must have come from spending the night on his lap. Lily looked up at him and pressed a kiss to his stubbly chin.

   Simon's arms tightened around her. "Watch yourself, love, or I'll ravish you again."

   A giggle erupted from her throat at the thought. There was something very primitive about Simon, and Lily discovered she enjoyed that aspect of him quite a bit. "You beast."

   His arms slackened, and he frowned at her.

   Lily immediately missed his tight embrace and couldn't imagine what would change his mood so quickly. "Simon, what is it?"

   His grey eyes bored into her as his frown deepened. "You think I'm a beast?"

   That's what he was upset about? Lily ran her fingers along his jaw. "Yes," she said honestly, "but I like that about you."

   Simon sat back against the squabs, his eyes widening in surprise. "You do?"

   Lily nodded. "I
love
that about you."

   The tiniest smile lifted his lips before he pulled her back against his chest. Just as he was about to capture her mouth, the coach came to an abrupt halt.

   Lily's forehead met with Simon's chin, and he reared backward.

   "Ouch!" she said, clutching her head.

   "What the devil?" Simon growled. He pulled back the shade and sucked in a breath. "Maberley Hall," he informed her with a frown.

   Lily glanced out the window, looking at her home of the last six years. The light-stoned Tudor manor house towered above them, and Lily closed her eyes.
Please, let Oliver be here!
She didn't know where to begin if he wasn't.

   Simon touched her cheek. "He'll be all right, love."

   She blinked her eyes open. How did he know what she was thinking? Before she could ask, he opened the door of the carriage and stepped out into the morning light. Simon offered her his hand, and she allowed him to help her from the coach.

   Together they walked from the drive up the stone steps to the grand, arched doorway. "Miss Rutledge!" the wide-eyed butler greeted her, as they stepped over the threshold. "We weren't expecting you."

   "Findley," she replied. "Please tell me Maberley is here."

   The butler shook his head as he shut the door. "Miss Rutledge, the Duke of Blackmoor sent a carriage for his lordship more than a week ago. Did he not arrive at Westfield Hall?"

Simon frowned at the elderly butler. Oliver was here somewhere; he could sense the pup. He could almost smell him. What was the man's game? "If you'd like to keep your post, you'll lead me to the whelp this instant."

   "Simon!" Lily whispered at the same time the butler's eyes grew to the size of billiard balls.

   "Sir?" the old man managed.

   "Findley," Lily began, with just a hint of mortification in her voice, "this is His Grace of Blackmoor. Maberley did arrive at Westfield Hall, but he's vanished. We had hoped he'd returned here."

   Findley turned his attention from Simon to Lily. "Miss—"

   "Her Grace," Simon corrected.

   For a moment, he thought the old man's eyes were about to pop out of his head. "H-her Grace?"

   Lily nudged Simon in the ribs. "Simon, please." She refocused on the butler. "He's not returned then?"

   The old man shook his head. Simon narrowed his eyes on the fellow. There wasn't a question in his mind that Oliver was here.

   It had been years since he'd been to Maberley Hall, but he'd spent some time here as a lad. It shouldn't be too difficult to tear the place apart, find the pup's hiding place, and toss him back in the Blackmoor coach. Then he'd deal with the insolent butler. "Maberley!" he bellowed.

   "Your Grace!" Findley cried. "I tell you the earl is not here. I would never keep him from Miss… er… your duchess."

   "Simon, Findley is honorable. If Oliver was here, he would say so."

   The old man vigorously nodded his head. "Of course, Your Grace."

   Simon sniffed the air. He couldn't catch the boy's scent, not recent scent anyway. Still, he knew they were close. "Very well, Lily. You stay here and wait for him." He started back for the door.

   "Wait!" she called after him. "Simon, where are you going?"

   "I'll search along the lanes." With that, he strode out the front door.

   The sky above looked ominous, reflecting Simon's darkening mood. He paid no heed to the gardeners who gaped at him as he made his way down the stone path that led to the Maberley stables. Simon cursed the rain, which made it nearly impossible to use his keen sense of smell.

   He spotted a boy, younger than Oliver, with a bucket in hand, just about to enter the stables. "You!" he beckoned.

   The stable boy turned around, dropping his bucket of oats. "Yessir?"

   "I'm looking for Maberley."

   The child stared blankly at him.

"The earl," Simon clarified. "Have you seen him?"

The boy shook his head. "Not for days, sir."

   Erebus! Oliver would have to stable him. Simon stalked forward. "And what of horses? Have you any Anglo-Arabians here?"

   Again the stable boy shook his head. "No, sir."

   "Well, I'll just take a look." Simon brushed past the child into the stable, his nostrils flaring at the odors that assailed his senses. He wouldn't be able to catch Oliver's scent here, but if he could locate Erebus, it would be a good first step.

   He walked the length of the stables, peering into every stall. Neither Oliver nor Erebus was there, which didn't make any sense at all. Simon would swear the boy was there. He couldn't see him and he couldn't smell him, but he could sense his angry presence.

   He turned back to the stable boy, who was now speaking with a groom at the entrance and pointing at Simon.

   "You," he called. "Have your fastest stallion saddled for me."

   "I beg your pardon?" the groom said, stepping forward, a frown marring his face. "Who are you?"

   It was a trial not to be at his own estate where his every dictate was immediately leapt upon. How much time had he wasted today dealing with Maberley's inept servants? "The Duke of Blackmoor. Now do as I say."

   He stalked out of the stables as a streak of lightning raced across the sky. Damn Oliver York! Where was the little beast? Simon looked across the estate as dark clouds rolled overhead. He sniffed at the air to the south. Nothing. He turned to the east and sniffed again.

   There it was.

   The scent was faint, so faint that he'd nearly missed it. He inhaled deeply to be sure. Oliver was out there. Somewhere to the east, Simon was certain.

   Within minutes, he mounted a chestnut stallion and tore off toward the east as thunder cracked above him. It had been years since he'd ridden this land, but at one time he and Daniel had explored every part of the Maberley estate. The area was not completely unfamiliar to him.

   He raced past one copse of trees and then another, looking in all directions for some sign of his insolent ward. A large drop of rain splashed onto Simon's cheek. When a flash of lightning lit up the dark sky, Simon heard a faint whinny in the distance.

   He urged his borrowed mount on as a deluge fell from the sky. Simon squinted, trying to see through the blinding rain, and he hoped his horse knew the terrain better than he.

   He kicked his mount's belly, pushing him toward the darkness that now appeared to be shelter of some sort. His horse pressed forward, stopping only when Simon pulled up on his reins.

   A crofter's cottage.

   A momentary haven. There was a lean-to on the side of the cottage. He could tie his horse, wait for the worst of the storm to pass, and then continue his search for Oliver.

   Simon hopped from his saddle and led his horse to the make-do shelter. He stopped in his tracks, drenched from head to toe but incredibly relieved to have found a dry place to wait for the storm to pass.

   The scene that greeted him made his heart soar. Because, panicked and unhappy, Erebus already occupied the lean-to.

There wasn't a lot of extra room in the small shelter, but Simon managed to secure his horse to a rail beside Erebus. He patted his gelding's nose. The AngloArabian was of the twitchy sort and hated thunderstorms. If he panicked badly, he could tear down the cottage. "There, there, boy. I'll see you home. A little patience."