Lords of Desire (24 page)

Lady Grace frowned. “I don’t have the experience of my parents to advise me since my mother died when I was so young, but from what I know of Aunt Kate’s marriage, she rubbed along tolerably well with Lord Oxbury even though she didn’t love him. And looking around the ton—there just aren’t that many love matches.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to London.” The house was very close now. Could she break into a run and end this uncomfortable conversation?

“But—I know it is none of my concern, I am fully aware of that, but…was yours a love match, Lady Kilgorn?”

“Yes.” There had been no question of that. She’d been completely, insanely in love with Ian as perhaps only a seventeen-year-old girl could be. He’d been almost a god to her—

certainly a hero. She’d been blind to all his faults…as he’d been blind to hers. She’d never doubted he’d loved her. And if life had been different…

But life was as it was.

“And so love isn’t enough.” Lady Grace gave her a sad little smile. “I thought so.”

“Perhaps.” They were at the door now. Nell put her hand out to stop Grace. “But it is a lot. I still love my husband.” It was true. The love was tangled with hurt and disappointment, but it was still there.

“And yet you have no real marriage.” Grace touched Nell’s hand lightly. “I don’t mean to criticize. I thank you most sincerely for your candor. Only, I don’t believe I could live your life. I would be too lonely.”

Ah. Loneliness. Nowthat was something Nell could speak about with authority.

Ian cut his venison into precise pieces. The lake’s ice-cold water had helped clarify his thinking. He had made his decision. He would get through this damn house party and then he would see about starting divorce proceedings.

He stared down at his dinner plate. He had no appetite. He slanted a look to his right.

Nell appeared to be similarly afflicted. She was ignoring her meal entirely.

He glanced around the table. In fact, very little food was being consumed. Well, Motton and his aunt were doing a credible job on their dinners and the Addison twins were heaping their plates with second helpings—not to mention Mr. Boland’s single-minded attention to his victuals—but Wilton and Lady Oxbury, Dawson and Lady Grace were exercising their forks much as he and Nell were—using them to push their food from one side of their dish to the other.

He took a sip of wine. He was not going to touch a drop of whisky tonight. He was going up to that bloody room stone sober. He brought a forkful of venison to his mouth—and then returned it to his plate. He felt like he had a rock in his stomach.

He didn’t want to divorce Nell, but what could he do? He needed an heir. They had no real marriage—and now no hope of one. He’d trampled his chances good and well last night.

He sneered at his green beans. He hadn’t thought he was so stupid.

“Is something amiss with your vegetables, Lord Kilgorn? I hope you didn’t find a twig or other indigestible bit. The kitchen maids occasionally get to gossiping and don’t pay as strict attention to their task as they should.” Miss Smyth leaned forward, pointing her fork at his plate as if she intended to pick through his beans herself to ascertain that all was well.

He held his knife ready to beat back—or at least nudge away—her utensil if necessary.

“No, no, there is nothing amiss. The beans are fine. Perfect.” It certainly wasn’t the kitchen’s fault everything tasted like ashes tonight.

“Are you sure? You’ve hardly touched your dinner.”

Good God, Miss Smyth sounded like his nursery maid. “I assure you, madam, the dinner is fine. I merely lack an appetite to do it justice.”

“You aren’t sickening, are you?”

He should say yes, but the woman actually looked concerned. “No, I am merely tired.”

He smiled. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better and my appetite will return when you’ve been able to find me another bedchamber.”

Damn. Miss Smyth’s eyes lit up. Was that a sly gleam of mischief he discerned? Surely she wasn’t going to make some salacious comment about lack of sleep and sharing a bed with Nell? It looked very much as if she was going to. She opened her mouth and horror gripped his soul.

“Miss Smyth, can I trouble you to pass the sweetbreads?”

Thank God for Miss Addison—whichever one it was. He would have sworn he’d never thank the Almighty for gracing the world with either of the annoying chits, but this one’s request could not have come at a better moment. Miss Smyth paused, shrugged, and grasped the requested dish.

“Of course, Miss Addison. I’m so happysomeone has a lusty appetite.”

Nell started choking.

“Are you all right?” Should he pound her on the back? He lifted his hand, but she raised hers to deter him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered when she stopped gasping. “I’m afraid a mouthful of wine went down the wrong way. I’m fine now.” She returned her attention to artfully arranging her French beans.

Damn. Her face was politely expressionless. She’d shut him out again.

If only he could turn back the clock. When she’d been young, she’d been so full of joy, of life, she couldn’t hold it in. He’d been drawn to her—all the lads had. But he’d been the laird…

He speared another morsel of venison. No, it hadn’t been his position that had given him her favor. Well, his position might have made the other lads back off when they’d seen he wanted her, but Nell herself had not cared, would not have cared had he been the lowest stable boy. She had loved him for himself.

He forced himself to chew the damn meat. It could have been shoe leather for all he knew.

When Nell had loved him, he’d felt stronger, smarter, quicker. Happier.

“Lord Kilgorn, would you care for some potatoes?”

“No, thank you, Miss Smyth.”

Why in God’s name had she lost the baby? She’d been young and healthy. She shouldn’t have had any problems. There’d been no warning. Just the cramping and then the blood.

He reached for his wineglass and took a large swallow. That was a day he never wanted to relive. She’d cried and cried as if her heart had broken. He’d felt so damn helpless.

He shoved another tasteless bit of food in his mouth and chewed mechanically.

He’d been able to think of only one solution—to give her another child—and she’d rejected that. More than rejected. She’d screamed at him, sobbed…He’d felt like a complete monster.

And then last night…

He speared a bean and shoved it into his mouth.

She’d seemed interested at first—surely he’d not been so drunk as to be mistaken in that.

More than interested. She’d taken his cock in her hand…. Zeus, that had felt good. Her tentative fingers, then the silky soft brush of her cheek, the delicate sweep of her tongue—

“Lord Kilgorn, would you like some sweetbreads?”

“Wha—?” Miss Smyth was blinking at him and holding a plate of…“No, no thank you, Miss Smyth. Really, I don’t need anything else. I am quite satisfied.”

The woman’s damn eyebrow flew up and she looked pointedly at Nell. If there was a God in heaven, Nell would still be studying her plate. His faith was not strong enough to look.

“Oh, I doubt you’re satisfied, my lord.”

A certain part of his anatomy, thankfully hidden by the tabletop, agreed with her most vehemently.

CHAPTER 7

She was hiding. All right, she admitted it. She was a coward.

Nell pulled the covers up higher and tried to find a comfortable position. The maids must have filled the mattress with rocks during the day.

She flopped onto her back and stared up at the canopy. She had to get to sleep—she did not want to be awake when Ian came up. With luck he’d be as late as last night—and not as drunk.

How many more days were left to this infernal house party? She could hardly wait to go home.

A sharp lump dug into the small of her back. She turned onto her side and tugged on the covers again.

Oh, why lie? She didn’t want to go back to Pentforth Hall, and she surely did not want to go back to Mr. Pennington’s amorous advances.

She turned over onto her stomach. If Ian truly thought she was engaging in such activities with the man, why had he allowed the disgusting toad to retain his position?

The answer was painfully obvious—he didn’t care. He was completely indifferent to the possibility that his estranged wife was trysting with his estate manager.

And she wasn’t crying. She was angry, that was all.

She wiped her face on her pillow. Shehad to go to sleep before Ian arrived.

Perhaps he’d decided to keep Lord Dawson company. The baron had looked completely forlorn after Lady Grace left the drawing room. Was the girl right to marry her neighbor?

She obviously loved Lord Dawson—and he loved her.

Yes, indeed. Without a doubt, Lady Grace was being very wise. Love didn’t guarantee happiness. She had loved Ian beyond all reason, and here she was, in this hellish limbo, married, yet not. Love was far more trouble than it was worth.

She turned to her back once more. Surely she could find a position comfortable enough to let her drop off to sleep?

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, but sleep still eluded her.

Perhaps the problem wasn’t so much a lumpy mattress as a, well, lumpy conscience.

Was it really love causing her misery—or was it fear? Was she afraid to let Ian back into her heart and risk the pain of conceiving and losing another child?

Yes. Yes, she was afraid. And it was too late now. If only she had reined in her temper last night, when lust had drowned out the terror—

Was that the doorknob turning? Dear God. She lifted her head to stare at the door. He couldn’t be coming up this early, could he? It wasn’t possible—

Yes, it was. The door creaked open. She shut her eyes, dropping her head onto the pillow. If she couldn’t sleep, she’d pretend to. She heard some rustling…

“I know you’re awake, Nell.” The voice had come from very close by.

Her eyes flew open. “Ack!” The man was standing right next to the bed, his chest naked for all the world to see. Or at least for her to see. The candlelight turned his skin golden and gilded the fine hair curling over his chest, over his belly, down to—

At least he still had his breeches on.

“Iwas asleep.”

His damn eyebrow arched up. She’d never been able to lie to him successfully.

“What are you doing here?”

He smiled slightly. “Isn’t it obvious? Getting ready for bed.”

“Bed?” Her voice squeaked. She tried to take a calming breath. “You don’t really mean to…you aren’t going to…” Another breath. “You don’t plan to share this b-bed with me, do you?”

She should try for a little courage, but her heart was pounding too quickly for her to think.

“Actually, I do.” He glanced away. “As I discovered last night, the floor is quite uncomfortable.”

“Well—” Nell glanced at the other pillow. It was much, much too close. The bed was just too small.

“Unless you’d like to take a turn on the floor? I warn you, though, Motton desperately needs to replace the carpet. It is rather thin.”

Nell looked down at the rug. “N-no…”

“I didn’t think so.” Ian shrugged. His muscles shifted in a very distracting fashion. She wanted to touch him exactly as she had last night.

Dear heavens. Well, it was his own fault, parading about without a stitch of cloth covering his chest. There were reasons men—polite men—kept their shirts on. Well, men like Ian. Pennington was a different case entirely. The thought of his scrawny chest stripped of shirt, waistcoat, and coat stirred the senses in a completely different—a completely unpleasant—manner.

What if she rolled over in the middle of the night and landed up against Ian? What if her face touched his warm chest; what if her bare hand found his smooth, strong back? What if—

What if she just threw herself at him right now?

How brazen could she be? She wanted to cradle the lovely organ she’d touched last night. She wanted to feel it deep inside her. She shivered.

“Are you cold, Nell?”

“N-no.”

“Hmm. Actually, you look rather flushed. You aren’t sickening, are you?”

Would he sleep on the floor if she said she was? “Yes, yes, I suppose I might be.”

Dear God, he put his hand on her forehead and then on her cheeks. His fingers were large and slightly rough. “You don’t feel hot.”

She certainly did. It was a wonder his hand didn’t burst into flame. “Uh.” She should say something…what? “Um.” She pulled her head back, breaking their contact.

She remembered with shocking clarity the feel of his fingers on her body, stroking over her arms, her breasts…

He’d used to sleep cuddled up—well, tangled up—naked, warm, and relaxed after coupling. Did he still?

She moistened her lips. Could he smell her desire? Could he hear it in the way her breath hitched?

He withdrew his hand. “Are you afraid, then?” His voice was harsh. “Are you worried I’ll force myself on you?”

No, she was worried she’d force herself onhim . But she couldn’t say that. How mortifying. She simply shook her head and kept her eyes on her hands even when Ian made a short, disgusted sound.

“Will this make you sleep easier?” He went to the hearth, picked up the poker, and laid it down the center of the bed. It was dark and hard; traces of ash smeared across the white sheets. “And I will keep my breeches on and stay on top of the sheets.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was an egg-size lump in her throat, but she couldn’t have Ian thinking she lusted for him like all the London women. “Splendid. Perhaps I shall be able to sleep tonight after all.”

She glanced up. Ian’s face looked like granite. His brows snapped down when his eyes met hers. “Youhad the bed last night. I would have thought you’d slept soundly.”

She felt herself flushing. “It is difficult sharing a room with you.”

His face grew even grimmer, if that were possible. “Well, with any luck, this will be the last time you’ll be forced to do so. I intend to insist Miss Smyth find me other accommodations tomorrow.”

“Good.” The thought made her stomach sink. How was she going to go back to Pentforth Hall and ever find any contentment?