A Most Sinful Proposal (12 page)

M
agna Midcombe had once been the site of an abbey. The Fortescues were very pious and therefore benefactors of the abbey, so when Henry VIII, mad with love for Anne Boleyn, decided to turn his back on the Pope and close the religious houses, they argued against it, and for their troubles they lost everything. According to a Miss Johnson, a local spinster who collected local history, all that now remained of the Fortescue estate was a meadow attached to an old mill.

“The family are long gone, of course,” she said. “But I can direct you to the mill.”

The former Fortescue estate was a little way beyond the village. The mill was neglected and forlorn, the wheel seized up in its pond, while the surrounding meadow was full of flowers, their colorful faces peeping over the long grass.

George, observing the pretty scene from his mount, said, “You should have brought a picnic basket, Valentine. Mrs. Beaumaris always packs the best picnics.”

“Hungry again, George,” his brother mocked. “I’m afraid I had more important things on my mind.”

“What could be more important than a picnic on a summer’s day?” George retorted. “Well, it just so happens I had the forethought to ask Mrs. Beaumaris for a picnic basket. It’s tucked into the back of the carriage.”

Valentine gave him a suspicious look. “Indeed?”

“Someone has to remember to play the host,” George said smugly. “Women appreciate a man with a thoughtful nature.”

While George was collecting the basket, Valentine handed Marissa down from the carriage, and they stood surveying the scene.

“What will we do now?” Marissa used her parasol to shade her face from the sun, but already she could feel perspiration trickling down her back. The air was still and hot, not a breath of wind stirring.

“Eat the picnic that George so
thoughtfully
brought,” Valentine said.

“No, I mean…”

“I know what you mean. I’ll take a look around but I doubt I’ll find anything. If the Crusader’s Rose was here then it’s long gone. We’ll just have to move on to the next name on the list, and hope for better.” He looked at her, as if waiting for something. “You haven’t told me that there’s a chance I may never find the rose, that I should prepare myself for failure.”

Marissa gave him a puzzled glance. “I wouldn’t say anything so spineless.”

His mouth curled into a reluctant smile. “No, I don’t believe you would.”

George arrived with the basket and a rug to lay out on the grass. He wandered over toward the mill
and the shade thrown by the old building. Here he shook out the rug, setting it by the pond where the water was deep and green, beams of sunlight barely penetrating the surface, while insects darted above. At any moment, thought Marissa, a woman’s hand might rise up from the depths, clutching a gleaming sword.

The thought made her smile.

“Mrs. Beaumaris has outdone herself.” As they made themselves comfortable, George was investigating the contents of the picnic basket. “There’s cold roast lamb, lobster salad, cherry tart…and a bottle of champagne!” He began to wrestle with the cork.

“What are you thinking?”

Marissa turned and found Valentine watching her from beneath his lashes. He was resting on his side, his long body stretched out on the rug and propped up by an elbow. He was twisting a blade of grass between his fingers, and one of his legs was bent at the knee, the cloth stretched over the thickness of his thigh. His jacket had fallen open and she could see the muscles of his chest beneath the thin linen shirt.

It was impossible not to remember him half-naked, his mouth hot on hers, as she sank down onto his lap and his fingers stroked her most secret places.

Marissa felt a tremor run through her, and beneath her skirts she squeezed her thighs tightly together, trying to ease the ache that was centered between them. Somehow, when George handed her
a glass of champagne, she managed to thank him in a calm voice, as if her skin were not feverish and her thoughts full of wicked, unladylike longings.

“To us!” he announced.

She smiled and took a sip. The liquid was cool and delicious and this time her delight was unfeigned. “To us.”

Valentine gulped some of the champagne, but he was still waiting for her to answer his question.

“I was thinking this could be the watery place where King Arthur commanded Excalibur to be thrown, when he lay dying.”

“Romantic fairy tales?” he said, brushing his hair out of his eyes and frowning at her. “I thought you were a woman of intellect and reason.”

Marissa took another sip of her champagne. “I am. But I also believe that we do not understand everything in our world and therefore we should keep our minds open to the possibilities.”

Valentine grunted a noncommittal answer. He emptied his glass and glowered at the sunny meadow surrounding them. He seemed to be following his own thoughts, and after a moment he said, “Can Abbey Thorne really be the only manor surviving from the days of the Crusader’s Rose? I would never have believed it.”

“I don’t think you realize how lucky you are,” she said quietly. “You live in a place that has been in your family for centuries, surrounded by the belongings and memories of generations. Abbey Thorne Manor belongs to you, but you also belong to it. My family has kept very little of the past. My father says he doesn’t believe in the burdens of his
tory, and although in some ways that may be a good thing, in others it means we are like plants without our roots in the soil. We do not belong to anything or anyone.”

She hadn’t meant to say so much on a subject that was painful to her, but her tongue had run away with her—or perhaps it was the excellent champagne.

“This does look good,” she said, beginning to fill a plate from the picnic basket. “And I am famished.”

“Mrs. Beaumaris always sent me back to school with a jolly good feast,” George said, eyeing his own plate with pleasure. He glanced up at her. “Didn’t you attend some finishing school or other, Marissa?”

“Miss Debenham’s Finishing School,” she said with a reminiscent smile.

“I thought your parents weren’t interested in the social niceties?” Valentine interrupted, digging his fork into the lobster salad.

“My grandmother is, however.”

“Do Bohemians value etiquette and manners? Don’t they prefer to live their lives outside the strictures of society?”

Marissa smiled in the face of his suspicion. “Not all of them, Lord Kent. My grandmother has always been very keen on etiquette and manners.”

And giving herself up to pleasure,
she almost added, stopping herself in time. It didn’t matter, though. Valentine read her unspoken words in her eyes and something in his own flashed like a sapphire in the sun. “Pleasure” seemed to be occupying both their minds to a dangerous degree.

After he’d finished eating Valentine went off to
search the meadow for his own personal treasure, while George lay back replete and closed his eyes. Marissa observed the play of light on the water of the pond, or amused herself watching the family of swallows who had made their home in the roof of the mill. The parents flitted back and forth, finding morsels to bring back to their noisy and hungry babies.

“What is this about Bohemians?” George murmured, opening one eye to look at her.

“Your brother brought the subject up, you should ask him.”

“You don’t seem at all intimidated by him, Marissa. Women sometimes are. They either try too hard to please him or make excuses to leave.”

“He’s a clever and interesting man,” she said uncomfortably.

“And you say what you feel, Marissa. Valentine appreciates women who say what they feel.”

“Does he?”

She turned to look across to the other side of the meadow, where the man in question was standing, head bent, the sunlight turning strands of his hair to gold. Perhaps there was something wistful in her gaze, although she tried hard not to let it show, because George reached out to give her hand a brotherly pat.

“We are friends, aren’t we, Marissa? You’ve forgiven me for abandoning you?”

“Of course I have,” she said. “And yes, we are friends, George.”

“You know, I only have your best interests at heart.”

Puzzled now, Marissa sat up straighter. “Whatever do you mean, George?”

But he had jumped to his feet and was standing over her, a silhouette against the sun that was beginning to eat into their patch of shade. “You may not have noticed, but there was a poster fixed to the door of the inn in Magna Midcombe.”

“Do you mean that poster of the dreadful boxing match you were staring at while your brother was trying to find out about the Fortescues?”

“Ah, but you only say that because you don’t understand the finer points of boxing. One of the combatants happens to be the Dorking Destroyer.”

“Good heavens.”

“The match begins in…” He took out his pocket watch and perused it. “In twenty minutes.”

Marissa shaded her eyes and looked up at him, waiting for what she knew was about to come next.

“Marissa?”

“Yes, George?”

“Would you be very disappointed if I returned to Magna Midcombe and left you in Valentine’s care?”

“Oh, George. How can you give up such a lovely day to watch a brutal, sweaty boxing match?”

Laughter gleamed in his eyes. “I knew you’d understand.”

“I don’t understand at all, but if you must go then I won’t stop you.”

He rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll probably stay for a round or two of drinks with the locals and then toddle off home later. So don’t worry about waiting for me.”

“George…!” she protested.

But he only grinned at her and strode across to his horse. With a wave of his hand, he kicked the animal into a fast trot and set off toward the gate, and the road to Magna Midcombe.

S
elf-centered, self-indulgent, irresponsible…” Marissa muttered to herself as she cast her gaze around the meadow, searching for Valentine. This time she found him stooping to peer into a thicket of weeds. As she watched he straightened, and she saw his head turn sharply as George galloped by, no doubt in response to George’s shout. For a moment he gazed after his brother’s receding figure, and then he spun around to face Marissa. She felt her heart begin to beat faster as, with long, urgent strides, he started to make his way through the tall grass toward her.

“He’s gone to a boxing match in Magna Midcombe,” she said, when he was close enough to hear her, and before he could speak himself. “He said he’d make his own way home afterward.”

Valentine looked startled, and then his brows drew down and his expression changed to suspicion. “He’s up to something,” he said. “Do you think he’s up to something?”

“He’s your brother. Surely you know him well enough to answer that question yourself.”

“I do, and he’s up to something,” he repeated with certainty.

Marissa unfurled her parasol; the shade was almost gone now. She glanced at the pond, and wondered if the water was as cool as it looked. It would be heavenly to dip her feet into those green depths.

Well, why not?

She set down the parasol and began to take off her shoes.

“He didn’t mention any boxing match to me,” Valentine said thoughtfully. “Did he say anything to… ?” His voice trailed off.

Marissa set her shoes neatly to one side and, drawing her skirt and petticoats over her knees, she began to untie the ribbons that held up her fine white stockings.

“What are you doing?” Valentine demanded in hushed tones.

“I’m taking off my shoes and stockings,” she replied calmly.

She peeled one stocking down over her calf, and then slipped it off her foot. Her toes felt much cooler already and she wriggled them with pleasure before beginning to remove the second stocking. Once that was disposed of, Marissa climbed to her feet and, lifting her heavy skirts, picked her way to the very edge of the pond.

Cautiously she sat down on the bank and dipped her toes in the water. It was deliciously cool, bringing goose bumps to her skin. She sighed, submerging her ankles and then a good six inches of leg, careful to hold her clothing out of the way.

She glanced sideways at Valentine. He was stand
ing, watching her. “You should join me. It’s very soothing on such a hot day.”

“I haven’t dipped my feet in the water since I was a child,” he said, as if she was suggesting something immoral.

Marissa laughed. “Then it’s time you did.”

Valentine glowered at her for a moment, and then suddenly he seemed to give in. He sat down beside her, tugging off first one boot and then the other one, before yanking off his stockings with flattering speed. He proceeded to roll up his trouser legs before he lowered his feet into the water.

“Must be deep to be so cold,” he said, slightly breathless.

She smiled at him and after a moment he smiled back. His eyes played over her mouth, and she felt her inner warmth returning, prickling her skin beneath her clothing, and making her breasts feel heavy and sensitive.

Impulsively she reached down to cup her hand in the water, lifting it to trickle over her throat. The cold liquid ran over and beneath the tight bodice of her dress. Relief was immediate, and she shuddered, and then laughed, turning back to Valentine. His face was flushed, and he was following the trickle of water with rapt attention.

Marissa reached down for more water, but this time she trickled it over Valentine’s throat, where his necktie was now undone, and the top of his shirt was unfastened.

He captured her hand. His eyes gleamed. “Minx,” he growled, and lifting her wet fingers to his mouth, kissed them.

This time it was Valentine who scooped up the water in his hands, allowing it to escape through his fingers and onto her skin, soaking her bodice. Then he used his tongue to follow the trail as far as he could. With gentle hands he cupped her breasts, fondling, until she began to breathe quickly, her eyes half-closed with pleasure. She swayed, dizzy, and suddenly she was slipping. Falling. With a squeak she began to slide down the steep bank and into the pond.

Valentine grabbed at her hands and gripped them tightly in his. Slowly, inexorably, he pulled her back up the bank and into his arms. They fell backward onto the ground together, cradled by the soft grass, their hearts beating hard.

“Valentine,” she whispered, reaching with a trembling hand to stroke his cheek and then brush his hair away from his eyes. He sighed and closed his eyes, and growing bolder, she bent to nuzzle the hollow of his throat, breathing in the masculine aroma she found so exciting.

She planned to explore further but Valentine had other ideas.

He clasped her in his arms and rolled her over, so that she was now beneath him, trapped under his weight and bulk. There was a moment when Marissa wondered whether she should be afraid—and she might have been afraid if it was any other man—but instead of fear she was filled with a sense of security. As if instinctively she knew that with Valentine she was perfectly safe.

His thighs were pressing to hers, and she wrapped her bare feet around his legs, at the same time wrap
ping her arms around his neck. Valentine bent his head and began to kiss her lips with a slow thoroughness that soon had her swooning.

His hand was on her hip, and then he was bundling up her skirt in determined folds, until he found what he was seeking. His fingers brushed against the flesh of her thigh. He found the ribbons that held her pantaloons in place, and proceeded to untie them.

“Take off your jacket,” she gasped, tugging at the garment.

He did, with her help, but a moment later he won the battle of her underwear and she felt the waist sag and begin to slip. With a grin, he edged his body downward.

“Valentine?” she cried, breathlessly.

But he had disappeared under her voluminous skirts and petticoats. His hands clasped her thighs, pressing them inexorably apart, and his warm breath teased her sensitive skin. A tremor ran through her, all sensation centering on the building ache at her core. His fingertip brushed against her and she whimpered, wriggling, but he held her still, blowing against her. He touched her again, more pressure this time, and she squirmed and moaned.

“Oh!”

“Be patient, Marissa,” he said, his voice far away.

Above her the hot blue sky was vast and beneath her the earth was warm and alive. She tried to do as he said and be patient, but her legs were trembling and she arched against his hand as he continued to tease her without giving her the release she urgently craved.

“Valentine…” she wailed, and then to her shocked amazement she felt the brush of his tongue. A wave of pleasure quickly followed and she cried out, hands clutching at the grass either side of her, her heels digging into the earth.

After a long moment she lifted her head. He was resting against her, smiling up at her with a particularly male expression. “That wasn’t something we learned about at Miss Debenham’s,” she said huskily.

“I haven’t finished yet,” he retorted.

“But—”

For the next several minutes Marissa was put through an agony of passion and impatience, as Valentine lathed her swollen flesh with his tongue, licking and sucking, bringing her closer and closer to a new peak of pleasure only to deny it to her. She begged him. She tried to grasp hold of him and force him to concentrate on where she wanted him. But he eluded her, forcing her to his slower pace.

And then, when he finally gave her what she wanted, Marissa reached a degree of ecstasy she’d never dreamed of. She lay limp and replete, unable to utter a single word, as he flung himself down beside her, chest heaving.

Dazedly, Marissa wondered if this was what her grandmother had meant by trying on a “hat” before buying it, and whether there could be any doubt that this “hat” was exactly the one she wanted.

But that couldn’t be. George was the hat she’d set her heart on. Surely he would be just as good or—or better? The odd thing was, Marissa didn’t want to kiss George or allow him the liberties Valentine
had just taken. The very thought of lying here with George was somehow…wrong.

She wished she could talk to Valentine about it, but that was impossible. Everything felt so complicated. She preferred to lie here, limp and contented, beneath the summer blue sky, and wait for the future to sort out itself.

She was smiling, that irrepressible dimple playing in her cheek. Valentine had never seen anything more beautiful than her lying like a wanton in the meadow grass, her hair falling in curls about her, her eyes half-closed and her pink mouth smiling. But his body was hard and throbbing and the knowledge that she’d offered herself to him and yet he had to resist her was driving him to the edge of insanity.

“You really are a most unusual girl,” he said, unable to disguise his irritability. “I don’t know anyone else like you. Don’t you feel the slightest bit concerned for what we’ve just done?”

Marissa brushed aside a blade of grass that was tickling her cheek, and turned her face toward his. “No, I don’t. Does that mean I’m a Bohemian, like my grandmother? I rather think I must be. Thank you, Valentine, for showing me how pleasurable such a life can be. You are a wonderful teacher.”

She always had an answer for everything. He was frustrated, not just physically but emotionally, intellectually…He was beginning to understand that he didn’t want to lose her to George, or anyone else for that matter. But at the same time he didn’t want to become entangled in another marriage.

“Is that all you care about, Marissa? A pleasurable life?”

“It is certainly better than kneeling on the damp ground searching for lichens. Don’t you agree?” She reached forward to brush his hair out of his eyes and he let her, the intimacy of the action filling him with joy.

“If I am your teacher,” he said, and paused, his thoughts becoming muddled and rather dark. “When you’ve learned all you can from me, will you find other men?”

What he asked was truly shocking to his own ears, but Marissa didn’t appear to be shocked. She stretched and yawned, like a cat after it has had its fill, and smiled at him, that dimple peeping out again.

“Are you tired of me already?” she asked.

He felt his stomach clench with some violent emotion that he didn’t fully understand, nor did he want to. His voice was harsh and tight, the words hard to get past the constriction in his throat. “Don’t you think you may be hurt by other men, Marissa? Taken advantage of? Not everyone is as scrupulous as I am. Not everyone who calls himself a ‘gentleman’ is deserving of the title.”

She sighed as if his questions were beginning to annoy her, and sat up, straightening her clothing with irritable little tugs. “You did not answer me. Are you tired of me already? Do you
want
me to find another man, Valentine?”

“No,” he growled. “You know I don’t, minx.”

“Then I won’t.” He couldn’t see her expression. She’d bent forward to draw on her stockings and
shoes, and her hair had fallen forward to hide her face. Valentine wondered what it was he wanted her say. He’d already made it clear he had no wish to remarry. What could he possibly have to offer her to keep her by his side while he continued his search for the Crusader’s Rose?

Pleasure.

The word reverberated in his mind, shaking him to the core. He could offer her pleasure and all the different ways of seeking and finding it. She’d already spoken of him as her teacher, hadn’t she? In his younger days, before Vanessa, he’d been utterly enamored with women and he’d gained a great deal of knowledge. Just because he’d been a monk since Vanessa died didn’t mean he’d forgotten those lessons. Oh, he may be a little rusty, but it would soon return to him.

The real question was whether he could control himself, whether he could prevent himself from unleashing all his pent-up passion on Miss Marissa Rotherhild, taking her virginity, and catapulting himself and her into forced wedlock. After what they’d done so far, deflowering her was perhaps a technicality, but to Valentine it was the point beyond which he must not go.

“I can show you how to find more pleasure,” he said at last.

“Valentine, what do you mean?” she said, looking up, her eyes questioning.

“Let me be your mentor, your teacher. If you really want to live a Bohemian life then let me show you how.”

She seemed to be considering his offer. “No at
tachments? I will not hold you to such a proposal if at any time you wish to stop, and you will not try to keep me by your side if I decide to go?”

Somehow he managed an indifferent shrug, although the voice inside his head was screaming at him to tell her he had no intention of allowing her to go off and place herself in the power of any other man but himself, and how could she even ask it of him.

She took his shrug as an affirmative. After a moment she nodded briskly. “Very well, Valentine.” She held out her hand toward him, and he grasped her fingers, holding them swallowed within his far bigger hand. She felt small and fragile, something to be protected, but Valentine knew Marissa Rotherhild did not consider herself either small or fragile, and she was certainly very much used to looking after herself.

“One more thing,” he said. “You must remain at Abbey Thorne Manor for the time being and join me in my search for the Crusader’s Rose.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Come, Marissa, you will enjoy it,” he assured her.

“Very well. I will stay and help you. For now.”

They began to pack up the picnic and put things away. The sun was still warm but it was definitely sinking lower in the sky. Time to return to Abbey Thorne Manor. Valentine wondered what Marissa expected from him now. He would have to give his next move some thought. He’d promised to give her pleasure so he must give her pleasure, and in a way that would keep her by his side.