For Love's Sake (15 page)

They trooped down the narrow hall and into the cozy drawing room. Its low, beamed ceiling trapped a great deal of heat from the fire, keeping the space warm despite the arctic temperatures outside. On one side of the room hung an enormous woven tapestry that covered the entire wall. In rich, vibrant colors, it depicted a medieval hunt scene complete with dainty maidens on horseback, a pack of lean hounds, and even a hooded falcon.

On the other side, half of the wall was paneled in light oak, with three pairs of latticed casement windows spaced evenly in between. A large desk and bookcase sat across from the fireplace on the opposite end of the room. Leather-bound, gilt-edged tomes spanned from floor to ceiling. Laurel had never seen so many books in all her life. She walked over to them, running her fingers across their titles. Some were in other languages, and most of the ones in English she had never heard of.

Her eyes drifted from his books around to his carved-oak desk. There was not a piece of paper on its polished surface, not even a pen. There was, however, a large bronzed eagle statue and a small silver picture frame.

“Who is this?” Laurel asked as she studied the trio of well-dressed young people posing in a beautiful garden.

Christopher smiled over at her. “Don’t you at least recognize one of them?”

She focused on the faces, honing in on the impish one seated cross-legged on an iron bench. He wore a peculiar striped suit with a straw boater hat perched upon his knee. A forgotten cigarette hung from his lips.

“Is
that
you?” Laurel exclaimed in disbelief. “You look so young!”

He raised his brows. “Am I so old?”

Laurel ignored him. “This must be your brother and your sister.”

“Yes,” Christopher said, pointing to the chubby-faced chap with one hand in his trouser pocket and the other resting on the back of the bench. “That is Jonathan…Lord Amesbury.”

She giggled at the faintest shadow of a moustache lingering on the young man’s upper lip, and then moved on to the pretty woman standing with a large parasol umbrella. Her dress was tight, almost like she had been poured into it, and buttoned up the front from the tip of her basque-waist clear up to her chin.

Christopher tapped at the image with his fingertip. “Summer of ’87.”

Laurel put the photograph back down on the desk and followed him through a doorway beside the fireplace. It led up a winding corridor of stairs to the second floor. Casement windows looked out over the courtyard on their left, while a row of doors contained bedrooms on their right.

“This will be yours,” Christopher said as he pushed open the third door.

It was simple and airy. There was a small fireplace and a large rosewood sleigh bed with a high, scalloped headboard. Beneath the latticed windows was a cedar blanket chest, and someone had piled cushions on it to make a comfortable place to sit and look out over the countryside. The open doors of the large wardrobe in the corner displayed all of her dresses, already put away by Mrs. Humphrees.

“I am just next door,” he said, pointing to the wall on the right. “But there is a bathroom between our rooms. Do you need help out of your clothes?”

Laurel shook her head, already peeling the wrinkled silk blouse over her shoulders.

The dining hall downstairs was large and bright. It was two full stories tall, illuminated by a double row of windows on one wall. A long, low table sat in the center, and ten stiff-backed dinner chairs formed a perimeter around it. A fire flickered in the enormous fireplace, which was surrounded by dozens of mounted stag and boar heads.

“Goodness gracious! Did you kill all those?” Laurel asked.

“Some belong to me and some to my brother. You’d think in a house as large as his, he could at least find one room to keep his trophies.” Christopher pulled back a chair for her. “…But I suppose not.”

She sat down and looked at her plate of stewed venison and cold potatoes. It was not the sumptuous fare that she had experienced on board the ship, but neither was it cornbread and collard greens.

“I hope you understand that, despite whatever you may have expected, I do not live a extravagant lifestyle,” he explained as if he had read her mind.

“Oh, no, I was afraid that you lived in some great big house full of uppity servants, but this is much more manageable.”

Christopher smiled at her as he cut into a chunk of meat. “I’m glad you feel that way, Laurel. Most people think I live much too simply for my station, so it’s nice to know I have at least one supporter.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Another spoonful of lavender bath salts dissolved in the steaming water. Laurel slid down to her chin, letting the warmth and the aroma wash over her. Already, she had fallen in love with the bathroom she shared with Christopher. Its white, cast iron, claw-foot tub was large enough for her to stretch out almost full length, and she pushed at the knob with her toe, flinching as hot water dripped down onto her feet.

From outside, Christopher rapped on the door with his knuckles. “You’ve been in there an awfully long time.”

Without bothering to wait for her permission, he pushed open the door and slipped inside.

“I can’t help it,” she grinned up at him. “I’m still not used to such luxuries.”

Christopher pulled up a small stool behind her and took a seat. With the skill of someone who had done it a thousand times, he unfastened his cufflinks, laid them on the sink top, and rolled his sleeves. He ran his hands down her shoulders, while kissing the soapy tendrils of light brown hair curled at the nape of her neck.

Laurel leaned her head back as he rested his chin on her collarbone. She could feel his hands searching for hers beneath the water, finding them, and entwining his fingers with her own.

“Thank you for coming,” he whispered. “You have made me the most happiest of men.”

They sat until the water grew cold, neither of them willing to break the spell. Finally, Laurel pulled the plug to drain the water, and climbed out of the tub. Christopher awaited her with a large white towel, wrapping her slick, wet body in it, and lifting her into his arms. He carried her out the door and down the hall, ignoring the shocked little maid that had come up to see if Laurel needed any help before bed.

His room was dark—not even a lamp was turned on. Without it, he found his bed and laid her down. She could make out just enough in the shadows to tell that his was a large tester bed. Christopher flung himself out of his clothes, leaving them on the floor where they fell. He was impatient to finally make love to her in
his
bed, which creaked and groaned as he climbed beneath the covers.

They had been together dozens of times, and still he could not get enough of her. He’d taught Laurel how to please him, and she did so without any insecurities or inhibitions. She also helped him to please her, discovering what she liked, and how she liked it. This was their little game, their secret. Nothing they did would ever leave the privacy of their beds, so they could love and be loved without any fear or shame.

Laurel spread her legs as his hands moved up her thighs, just as eager to have him as he was of her. She did not need any light to navigate his body. She knew it just as well as she knew her own, and she pulled at his arms and shoulders, dragging him up to her level. Instead of taking her then, he surprised her, rolling onto his back, and pulling her on top of him.

A soft groan escaped her lips, chastising him for the trick he had pulled. By far, Laurel’s favorite parts of his body were his hips. She delighted in the way the sharp bones protruded slightly from his muscular torso, and bent down to nibble each one. Her lips brushed back and forth across his abdomen. She was teasing him, tormenting him to the very brink of self-control.

Christopher pushed his hips upward, arching his back off the bed,
begging
Laurel to either stop or to satisfy him. In answer, she placed a restraining hand on his stomach, pushing him back down, and silencing his protests. If he wanted to play that wonderful, languorous game of anticipation, she would see that he got
exactly
what he asked for.

Laurel leaned over him, letting her hair fan out across his chest as she nipped and tugged on his nipples with her teeth. He thrust his hands into her hair, burying them to the knuckles as he pressed her face harder into his chest. Christopher thought he would lose his mind if she did not let him take her then. Laurel ground her hips into his, rocking back and forth on top of him, but never actually giving him what he wanted.

Christopher let his hands fall down her spine, running them over her bottom, and down her thighs. He hated Laurel for what she was doing to him, but the power that she held over his body only made him love her more. Unable to bear it any longer, he flipped her over, crying out as he drove into her. He withdrew, then drove in again, and again, and again. Christopher could not keep his hips still, thrusting in sharp, hungry jerks. He was powerless to stop himself before he felt the quickening in his body, and shuddered convulsively as the waves of raw pleasure shook him.

“I’m sorry,” he said raggedly into her shoulder.

Laurel did not care that he reached his fulfillment before she reached her own. In fact, she relished in his complete loss of control. She also knew that he would spend the rest of the night making it up to her.

It was the only time in her life so far that she had ever slept past breakfast, but Laurel was exhausted. She and Christopher had not fallen asleep until the sun was already flooding his room with bright pink light, and no matter how hard she tried, she simply could not drag herself out of bed.

Christopher shifted beside her. It was a little chilly in the room, so Laurel pulled the coverlet up over both of their shoulders. Again, Christopher stirred, but he did not awaken. Lying there with him allowed her plenty of time to think about how far her life had come in the past few months. She was no longer a spinner for the Hathcock-Holbrooks mill. No longer just a girl from North Carolina—she was in Wiltshire, England, sharing a bed with a man who had once been nothing more than a stranger to her. If Laurel did not know better, she would have said that it was absurd!

She also wondered what the servants thought. None of them seemed concerned that their employer had brought home a strange American girl—a souvenir of his travels, no doubt.

“Christopher!” Laurel said, shaking him until his eyes squinted open.

He was still drowsy as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Have you ever had a mistress before?”

“Why?”

“I was just thinking that this doesn’t seem very out of the ordinary to Mrs. Humphrees or the rest of your staff,” she explained.

Christopher rolled onto his back. “I have brought women here before, but only as guests. And besides, what I do is none of their business.”

“Aren’t you worried what they will think?”

“Not at all, actually,” he said. “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”

I’ve noticed,
Laurel thought.

“And to prove it, I’m going to have breakfast sent up while we’re still in bed together.”

“Breakfast in bed!” Mrs. Humphrees grumbled as she plopped two greasy, fried eggs down onto the plates.

Mr. Humphrees was having coffee while ironing His Lordship’s copy of
The Times
, while Flora, the maid, rang her hands. Only James, the young footman-groom-groundskeeper, managed to find the situation amusing.

“She is a pretty little thing. No wonder he’s so taken wit’ her.”

“Pretty or not,” Mrs. Humphrees argued. “She has no business tarting herself around here. Why he couldn’t just leave her back there is beyond me.”

“She don’t seem like a tart…well, she don’t
look
like one, anyway.”

Poor Flora trembled so violently that she could hardly hold herself upright, much less carry the heavy breakfast tray. “I couldn’t possibly go up there, not with him and her in bed together.”

“I suppose
I
will take this up then,” Mrs. Humphrees said as she pulled it from the girl’s hands.

Mr. Humphrees never glanced up at his wife as he handed her the crisp copy of the daily newspaper.

“Here you are, My Lord,” Mrs. Humphrees said as she placed the tray across the bed. “And your copy of
The Times
.”

Laurel pulled the sheets up over her chest, while Christopher barely bothered to cover himself at all. If the housekeeper was concerned by his blatant disregard for propriety, she did not make her feelings known.

“James said he saw a few flakes of snow down by the barn this morning,” she said casually. “Looks like we may have some in time for Christmas after all.”

“Hmmm…” Christopher nodded, taking a forkful of black pudding.

Laurel had never seen anything so disgusting in her entire life, and she watched him eat the congealed mass of fried blood with obvious consternation. To her, roofing tar would have been a welcome alternative to this
peculiar
English favorite.

Mrs. Humphrees dusted her hands on her apron. “Well, My Lord, if you won’t be needing anything else…”

He waved her off before she needed to finish her sentence.

“And she laid there and looked down her nose at
my
breakfast!” the woman ranted as she plunged the skillet down into the soapy dishwater. “It’s no wonder she’s thin as a post! I give her one week before His Lordship gives her the chuck.”

Suddenly, there was a violent scratching at the heavy kitchen door. Mrs. Humphrees pulled it open in the face of two border collies—one, a sort of mottled gray merle, and the other, white and black.

 
“No scraps just yet,” the woman said to them. “It seems your master has taken to spending the day in bed, and only just now got around to breakfast.”

The dogs whined and pawed at the air, trying to entice her into giving over
something
for their troubles. A winded James ran up to the door, pulling at the two dogs’ collars.

“Come on you beggars!” he huffed, but they would not budge.

Presently, one of the bells on the wall—the one attributed to Laurel’s bedroom—began to ring. This put Mrs. Humphrees into a new fit of rage, and she turned on the unsuspecting little maid, who was having tea on a stool in the corner.