A Scandalous Lady (21 page)

“Have I told you that you are the most wonderful lady I've ever known?”

Lady? He thought her a
lady
? “But I did nothing—except bowl the duchess over on her arse.”

“You performed a miracle.” His eyes were damp, and she wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying. “Faith, do you know that that is the first time I've heard my sister laugh in . . . I can't remember when.”

Faith could do nothing but dig her fingers into his shoulders and hang on for dear life when he took her for another spin around the entry hall. His laughter, so free, so reckless, rumbled through her veins.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want for nothing, milord.”

“There must be something. A new dress? A day to yourself? The moon? Tell me what you want and it shall be yours.”

You.

He went still, and for one horrifying moment Faith feared she'd spoken her greatest, most secret wish out loud.

Time seemed to stop as he continued to hold her against him, her chin level with the top of his head, her hands upon his shoulders for balance, her feet dangling off the floor.

And when she looked down she realized why he'd grown so quiet. Three buttons of her gown had come undone. The material gaped, showing the bare, inside swells of her breasts.

And he was staring right at them.

Faith knew she should be outraged. She should demand that he let her go and she should right her clothing immediately. Instead, her nails bit into his shoulders and she watched in fascination as his glorious gray eyes darkened to pitch. He wet his lips with his tongue. A roaring began in Faith's ears. Her breasts went hard, tight against her blouse, swelling, aching.

And then, he kissed her. There. At the seam of her breasts which seemed to have been presented to him in just that state, for just that reason. Faith's heart stopped. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe. She could only remember. The sensation of his lips on hers. The gentle power of his kiss. The sizzling giddiness swirling through her middle.

And she could only feel. His arms tight around her waist, his chest pressed flush against her breasts, her own blood rushing through her veins.

When she did nothing, not push him away, not demand he release her, not cry out in protest, he kissed her breasts again. Then, with his tongue, he traced a wet path up the cleft, around the top of one heavy globe under the fabric, over to the other breast.

Her head dropped back and her eyes fell shut. She thought she even heard herself moan. His warm, moist breath fanned against her skin and she swore she went up in flames.

“What do you want?”

You, oh God, I want you.

“Tell me what you want, Faith, just say the word, and it shall be yours.”

The hungry timbre, the greedy demand, reached past the fog dulling her senses and gripped Faith's sense of reason. She opened her eyes, saw his face buried between her all-but-naked breasts . . .

And wanted to die.

Fully aware of where they were, and what he was doing to her, Faith pushed at his shoulders. Kissing her on the mouth in the privacy of his chambers where no one could see was one thing. This . . .
this
was quite another matter entirely. She could not believe she'd allowed him, the lord of the manor, to . . . kiss her in such an intimate place—right in the middle of the bloody foyer. “Baron . . . please . . . let me go before someone walks in.” She would not be able to bear the shame.

He blinked. He looked up. Then he looked around. As if coming to the same awareness, he let her slide down the front of him and he released his hold, but he did not step away. His body, so hot, so hard, so . . . male, called out to the woman in her. “Forgive me, you're right. Such . . . activity should not be conducted in so public a setting.”

His voice was deep, husky, and so incredibly sensual. Faith fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Her skin burned. Her throat closed. She wanted nothing more than to leave, to catch her breath, to collect her scattered emotions and her tattered pride. “Such activity should not be conducted at all,” she whispered raggedly.

Something in her voice must have penetrated, for he blinked, stepped back, and rolled his lips between his teeth. “You're right. Such activity should not be conducted between us at all.” He sounded almost . . . hurt. “However, there must be something you want that I can give you.”

My freedom! Give me that, please give me that
. She could not bear to be near him, to feel these wicked, wonderful things she was feeling for him and not be able to have him.

But she held her tongue. He'd made his position clear the first time she'd asked for her freedom, and she had no wish to test his limits. “You already did, milord,” her voice trembled. “You gave me Scatter.”

“It still does not compare to what you did, but if you insist, we shall call it even.”

He bowed, then headed for the staircase.

“Baron?”

He paused with one foot on the bottom step and looked at her over his shoulder.

“Why does Lady Brayton not laugh?”

“Her pain is only greater than her regrets.”

“What would she have to regret?”

“Choices.” A soul-deep sorrow filled his eyes where laughter had always lurked. “Don't we all regret a few of those?”

 

The guests began arriving early Friday afternoon, among them, Miles Heath.

Troyce met him at the door of the stables. He and Chadwick, along with a half dozen of the male villagers, had spent the morning preparing the stables and carriage houses for the dozens of horses that would be boarded over the next three days, with Troyce cursing the expense the entire time. Reminders that his grandfather could well afford the expense did nothing to improve his mood, for it only served to remind him that his bachelorhood was fast coming to an end.

“It's good to see you, mate,” he told his friend.

Miles passed the reins to Scatter, who led the bay through the doors. “You look like hell.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“She's getting to you that bad, is she?”

“Who?”

“That sweet little morsel of a maid you took under your wing.”

His jaw tightened at Mile's reference to Faith. He'd seen her only once in the last week, and the moment had been so brief it might never have happened. Aye, Devon had kept her busy, but he knew she was also avoiding him.

He didn't know what to do about her. He'd offered her what he could, and it hadn't been enough. He'd tried to take care of her, and it hadn't been enough. He'd shown her how much he desired her, and still, it hadn't been enough.

What the hell did she want from him?

“I told Devon about Radcliff.”

“That must have gone over well.”

“Just don't rub it in her face, Miles. I'd hate to have to kill you.”

With more serious subjects said and out of the way, the pair spent the next hour standing outside the stables catching up on politics and current news, who was gambling away his father's money, who had escaped the matrimonial noose, and who had succumbed to it, before Miles claimed weariness and adjourned to his room.

Troyce then spent the remainder of the day greeting new arrivals, some being neighbors he hadn't seen in nearly a decade. Every carriage held at least one bell-skirted, hair-powdered, parasol-toting maiden of marriageable age who began assessing himself and his holdings the minute she stepped onto Westborough soil.

By dusk, all their guests were accounted for and Troyce could put off his doom no longer.

“Good heavens, West, you don't plan to attend supper in that?” Devon whispered in horror when he walked into the house.

Troyce glanced down at himself. His boots were muddy, his trousers spattered, and his shirt soiled. He couldn't resist. “I thought this was a country ball? Do I not look country enough?”

“This is no time for jesting.”

“There's always time for jesting.” He popped a kiss on her cheek. “You look beautiful, Devon.” Her glossy black hair was piled high on her head, ringlets had been artfully arranged to frame her face, and the red in her dress brought out the roses in her cheeks. “None of the men here tonight will be able to keep their eyes off you. Shall I don my cutlass in the event I'm needed to avenge your honor?”

She blushed, and for the second time in as many weeks, her eyes sparkled. “You are such a rogue. Now, please do something with your attire before our guests arrive.”

He could have told her that their guests had been arriving all afternoon, but decided not to encourage her flustered nerves.

Instead, he mounted the stairs to his room, trailing his hand along the banister. With each step, the image of Faith he'd tried to hold at bay formed in acute clarity. A slow smile spread across his face at the memory of her covered in feathers.

Like an angel. A bold, vibrant angel, tossed from heaven to give him hell.

Troyce sighed, suddenly tired. Someone had set up a bath in his room, and though he was tempted to spend the evening soaking away his sore muscles in the steaming water, he knew that Devon was expecting him to help her greet their guests. So he scrubbed quickly and after towel-drying his hair, donned the clothes that had been laid out for him on his bed.

Though he admitted that it was quite pleasant being waited on hand and foot, he didn't think he'd ever get used to it. Having someone decide what you would wear, when you would dine, whom you would marry . . .

Jesus.

He sat on the bed and rubbed both hands over his face. Could he really go through with this? Sell himself to a woman? Let his grandfather choose his life-mate? The mother of his children?

Did he have any other choice?

Sighing more deeply, he rose from the bed and crossed the room. He stood in front of the full-length cheval mirror, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, trying not to think of how empty his life would be, when he spotted Faith's reflection watching him from the doorway. She looked neat, tidy, her formal black maid's gown crisp and pressed, her wild curls tamed beneath a mobcap. And still, so beautiful she took his breath away. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see that you've no idea how to button your shirt.”

He grinned wryly and held out his arms. His unbound sleeves drooped from his wrists. “It seems I am in need of some assistance.”

“Where's your man?”

“Chadwick has taken ill—quite inconveniently, I might add. I'm having a devil of a time with all these fasteners. I fear I cannot manage these on my own.”

She snorted. “Leave it to the gentry not to be able to dress themselves.”

She entered the room, brushed his hands away, and plucked his father's silver button links from a velvet-lined box. “You smell nice.”

Her artless candor surprised and delighted Troyce. “I'm pleased you think so.”

“Are you wearing cologne?”

“No.”

“Then it must just be you.”

“And what does ‘just' me smell like?”

“The wind. The sea. The forests at midnight.”

He watched her lips move as she talked. God she had a beautiful mouth. Full. Ripe. The taste of her, sweet as summer fruit, still haunted him. “I've not seen much of you these past two weeks,” he said gruffly. “You look beautiful, Faith.”

“I've been busy.”

She pointedly ignored his compliment, but the rising color in her cheeks told him she'd heard it. “Aye, I've seen you with the village lasses, teaching them their duties. It has been a great help to Millie, and much of a relief, I'm sure.”

“It's too soon for Millie to be exerting herself,” she said.

“Too soon after what?”

Faith's fingers stilled against his chest. Then she sighed. “She has been ill for some time.”

Troyce stared at her in dismay. “Why was I not told of this?”

“She made me promise. She feared that you or Lady Brayton would retire her.”

“Why would I retire the most loyal housekeeper I've ever known?”

“Then you wouldn't?”

“Of course not. And I'm disappointed that either of you would consider me so heartless.”

Faith lowered her gaze, then her chin. “You're right, milord. I was wrong not to tell you. I would have if she hadn't made me promise not to.”

Would she? “Have you made any other promises that I should know about?”

“Only to myself.”

Troyce wanted to ask what that promise was, but something in her shuttered eyes told him she'd not reveal it to him, so he didn't bother. Instead, he lifted his vest off the arm of a nearby chair and slipped into it. A glance at Faith's dubious expression in the mirror made him frown. “What?”

“May I speak freely, milord?”

“Since when have you required my permission?” he teased her.

“You look like a Robin in that waistcoat.”

“A Robin?”

“Bow Street Runner.” She moved to his wardrobe and rifled through his clothes as if she'd been born to the task. “Here, try the silver. It will bring out the color of your eyes.”

Troyce laughed. “My eyes aren't silver.”

“They certainly are. When the sun hits them just right, they glitter like rich ore.”

That she would make such a personal observation put a knot in his throat and sent heat shooting straight to his groin. He couldn't remember any woman commenting on his eyes before. “What does a Bow Street Runner do?” he asked, turning around as much to don the vest she held up to him as to hide his unwelcome arousal.

“Well, they spent a lot of time making my life miserable,” she grinned.

“No thanks to Gentleman Jack Swift, I'll wager. How did you ever get involved with a fellow like him anyway?”

“I wasn't involved with him. I worked for him. There's a difference.”