Mia Marlowe (12 page)

She didn’t have long to puzzle over whether or not he could hear her thoughts because he scooped her up then and carried her to the bearskin. Still kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her closed eyelids, he lowered her to the soft pelt.

Lucinda wasn’t sure what he expected of her. Should she touch him as she had in her great-aunt’s kitchen when she’d learned for certain sure just how “Much of a Muchness” he was? Should she simply lie there with her eyes squinched tight?

Lucinda decided on keeping her eyes open and she was so glad she did.

Otherwise she’d have missed the wholly unexpected look of tenderness on Alexander’s face as he lowered himself beside her. She’d have missed the way his eyes closed in something like reverence when he bent to kiss her breasts and the way the corners of his mouth turned up wickedly when he reached under her hem.

When he slid his hand up her silky pantalets, it was as if the thin fabric disappeared entirely. Her legs fell open of their own accord. She couldn’t have kept her knees together unless they’d been bound with a cord.

Then Alexander found the open crotch in her pantalets and cupped her sex with his whole hand.

“Oh,” escaped her lips.

Her insides did several backflips, a fierce melding of need and joy. She’d never imagined wanting to be held like this. Now she couldn’t imagine what her life had been like before he did it. He took that part of her she didn’t know quite what to do with—the part that some had tried to teach her was shameful, not to be touched or fiddled with more than strictly necessary—and he held her as if that small bit of her was the most precious thing in the world.

“Can ye feel that?” she whispered. “My heart is pounding between me legs.”

He smiled down at her. “Just wait.”

Then he bent to kiss her again and as he slipped his tongue between her lips, he slipped a finger between her soft, moist folds.

The whole world fell away.

 

 

Everyone pronounced the sword and dirk dances an unmitigated success. Lord Rankin moved around the ballroom, dropping a few words into each little clump of revelers’ conversations, and received nothing but glowing comments in return.

His talents were wasted playing sheepdog to men like Mallory and Clarindon. So much more could be accomplished through diplomacy. Once Rankin paved the way for a successful royal progression next summer through his own methods, surely Lord Liverpool would see that in the modern world, such old-fashioned spies as Mallory and Clarindon were as antiquated as knee britches and snuffboxes.

And how might the prime minister reward someone of his talents? An ambassador’s post sounded good to Rankin. Preferably to someplace warm. Italy, perhaps. Tuscany was particularly lovely any time of year. Lord Liverpool could arrange matters for him.

Rankin was warming to a vivid daydream of dusky dark-haired maidens, their bare calves stained from stomping grapes, when Lord Arbuthnott interrupted his musings.

“Weel, milord, are ye ready to return to the chess match we started?” Arbuthnott said. “Though if ye didna wish to, I couldna blame ye. I left ye in a deuce of a pickle, an’ I do say so meself.”

“Don’t be too hasty,” Rankin said. “We English have had our backs to the wall before and emerged victorious.” When Arbuthnott frowned, Rankin realized he’d steered the conversation in entirely too military a direction. “But no matter. The point of the game is stimulating conversation as far as I’m concerned. And I believe I saw a decanter of port in the study as well. Shall we?”

He waved Lord Arbuthnott ahead of him and started along the perimeter of the ballroom toward the exit. The musicians had launched into another set of dances and he noticed the comely MacOwen sisters had once again taken to the floor, this time with new partners. It had been a stroke of genius to include that family in the gathering. Not only were the girls highly ornamental, their presence seemed to irritate Mallory since they were a tangible reminder at every turn of his unexpected betrothal.

Strange that he didn’t see Mallory’s fiancée dancing, too. Or Mallory himself, for that matter.

“Lord Rankin, I’m cravin’ a word wi’ ye.”

Hester MacGibbon’s croaking voice carried over the music and he wasn’t quick enough to pretend he hadn’t heard her. She rumbled along right behind him and Lord Arbuthnott. The old lady could be surprisingly spry when she wished.

Since it wouldn’t do for him to be seen to be discourteous to a guest, even an uninvited one, Rankin stopped and allowed her to catch up to him, though every fiber in his being urged him to flee. The MacOwen girls were a fine addition to the party. Their demanding great-aunt was not.

“What is it, Mrs. MacGibbon?” He added a silent
“this time.”

“’Tis concerning me niece Lucinda’s nuptials,” she said. “The marriage contract stipulates that the wedding between her and Lord Bonniebroch be held at St. Giles, the High Kirk in Edinburgh, on Christmas Day. But I’m thinkin’ we could bend the particulars of the agreement without disturbin’ the intent. Not to mention that these old bones don’t crave another carriage ride back to town for no longer than it’ll take to say the needful words over the happy couple. The MacOwen family would be satisfied if the ceremony were held here at Dalkeith, in the St. Nicholas chapel.”

Satisfied?
She’d be merely
satisfied
to have her niece married in the very chapel where King George IV would make at least an appearance of piety next summer. The woman’s pushiness had no limits.

“Surely this is not the time or place for such a discussion. Kindly make an appointment with my factor and I’ll give your request full consideration tomorrow.”

“I don’t see as there’s all that much to consider,” Mrs. MacGibbon said.

“Nevertheless, I have a pressing chess match to settle and I haven’t time to attend to other matters at present.” He turned to follow Lord Arbuthnott, who was well on the way to making good his escape. “Now, good evening.”

“Aye, it’s been that,” Mrs. MacGibbon agreed with uncharacteristic cheer as she clasped his arm and tottered alongside him. “Chess, d’ye say? Not with Lord Arbuthnott, I hope. The man’s a master. Why, he’ll give ye such a drubbin’ as ye’ll never recover from. Best I go along and see can I offer ye some help. Many’s the time I kept Mr. MacGibbon, God grant him rest, from castling his king when he ought to have charged across the board.”

Rankin couldn’t shake her without curtness. Perhaps acquiescence to her demands was the ticket. “On second thought, I believe a St. Nicholas chapel wedding is a capital idea. I don’t see why your niece and Lord Bonniebroch shouldn’t be married right here.”

“Weel, that’s grand then,” she said, but showed no sign of turning him loose.

“Now that that’s settled, there’s no need for you to leave the evening’s festivities,” he said with fading hope.

“Och! In truth, all this music’s beginning to give me a headache and I’m needin’ a bit o’ quiet. A good game o’ chess will be just the thing,” she said. “Tell me, milord, how stand ye on the question of using the King’s Gambit for an opening?”

Lord Rankin slowed to match her pace and continued on toward the parlor. There was no help for it. He’d been short to the point of rudeness, but she hadn’t even recognized the cut. He’d given in to her demands and she merely took it as her due. Short of peeling the woman’s hand off his arm and fleeing for his life, he wasn’t going to be rid of her.

Lord Rankin sighed.

 

 

Alex thought he couldn’t get any harder, but watching Lucinda’s face while he played with her soft folds made him like granite. Her breasts were perfection and the sweet, wet heaven between her legs was worth dying for, but to watch first wonder, then need, and finally rapture parade across her lovely features was the finest thing he’d ever experienced.

He kissed along her jawline, then licked her earlobe. She shivered with delight, raising her arms above her head in surrender. Her eyelids fluttered closed and he knew she was so intent on simply feeling, she couldn’t bear too many senses at once.

His were all on high alert. The fresh, musky scent of her arousal perfumed the small space. He longed to bury his face between her legs and wallow in her essence, to nibble on those sweet nether lips and run his tongue through her secret valleys.

But Lucinda was a virgin. He didn’t want to overwhelm her.

Next time,
he promised himself.

For now, he worshiped her soft wet petals with his touch. He circled and teased and stroked the little pearl that had risen under his fingertips. He slipped into her tight channel, first with one finger, then with two, while his thumb still tormented her most sensitive spot.

She writhed under him. She arched her back while he tongued her nipples. She moaned his name. She didn’t hold back or beg him to stop. Lucinda accepted everything with heart-pounding delight.

She was a veritable queen. And her trust made him feel like a king.

Her breathing grew increasingly ragged. Finally Lucinda’s eyes flew open and her whole body stiffened. She curled her fists into the shaggy bearskin.

“That’s it, love,” he said encouragingly. “Let it begin.”

Her release started with a soft pulse in her folds, then a pounding around his fingers. Finally her whole body bucked with the force of the contractions and she cried out in a long thin sob of joy.

Alexander cradled her sex in his palm. It was as though her heart galloped in his hand. He kissed her again, intending it to be a sweet conclusion to her experience, but she pulled his head down and held it while she thrust her tongue into his mouth. Her other hand found his groin and she began rubbing him through his trousers in long, hard strokes.

He undid his trousers, hiked up her skirt around her waist and settled between her thighs. He stopped, poised at her swollen opening.

“That was . . . there are no words,” she said, squirming down to take him in. The tip eased into her warm wetness. “But it still wasn’t enough. I’m so empty.”

He kissed her breasts, then her chin, then her lips. “And I can’t bear to see a damsel in distress.”

She was going to be a tight fit. Should he go slow to avoid hurting her or shred her in a single hard thrust and get the business of deflowering her over with quickly?

But before Alex could do anything, fast or slow, the door to the corridor opened and Lord Arbuthnott walked in.

“God’s teeth, laddie, are there no beds in Dalkeith that ye must defile your lass on a bear rug?”

Alex scrambled to yank Lucinda’s skirt down as she rolled out from under him, away from the Scottish laird. Then he stood and refastened his trouser buttons, while she, faced away from Lord Arbuthnott, did up her bodice.

Blood started to flow back to Alexander’s brain and sanity came with it. What on earth was he thinking? He didn’t want to marry Lucinda. Wasn’t that the whole point of their ridiculous “kissing three other men” agreement? And yet he couldn’t bear to watch MacMartin slobber on her.

“This isn’t what it looks like, milord,” he began.

“If it isna what it looks like then the English really are a different sort of folk,” Lord Arbuthnott said, arms crossed over his chest. Lucinda finished arranging her clothing, smoothed down her hair, and turned around. “Ah, there ye are, lass. I mind ye now. Ye’re the MacOwen girl, are ye no’?”

“Aye, milord, an’ it please ye.”

The laird’s brow lowered. “It doesna please me.”

“What doesn’t please you?” came Lord Rankin’s voice from the hallway.

Wonderful,
Alex thought
. Almost caught with my trousers around my ankles by the man who most wants me to fail my Scottish mission.

“What’s amiss, Arbuthnott?” Rankin’s voice was closer now. “Have you realized your mistake and seen the way I’m going to beat you?”

“Oh, I reckon it’ll come to a beating,” the Scottish laird said. “But it willna be me who’ll be getting it. It’ll be one of yer young gentlemen.”

Rankin’s bulk filled the doorway for a moment. “Mallory, what’s going on here—oh.”

Lucinda was blushing scarlet and fiddling with her bodice buttons as if to make sure they were all done up. Her hair was disheveled, her mouth kiss-swollen. There was no mistaking what had happened.

“Is this what we can expect from the English, Rankin?” Arbuthnott demanded. “Are ye thinkin’ to break the spirit of the Scots by instating some sort of
droit du seigneur?
Ruining our women with no recourse! I’m telling ye, man, we’ll no’ stand for it.”

“I’m no’ ruined,” Lucinda said softly. “No’ quite.”

“Quiet, Lu—” Alex began. Nearly shagging her was a mistake brought on by the heat of the brawl with MacMartin and the way her eyes went all soft in the light of the banked fire and—oh, hang it all, he was without excuse. But the last thing he needed was for her to try to defend him.

“Lucinda Ismay MacOwen!”

Correction.
Great-Aunt Hester making an appearance behind Lord Rankin was the last thing he needed.

“Weel, now,” the old lady said. “What have ye to say for yerself?” When Lucinda started to explain, Hester interrupted her. “No, lass, say what ye will, there’s no excuse for behaving like a trollop.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Alex said, moving in front of Lucinda. “She wasn’t behaving like a trollop. This is my fault entirely.”

“Aye, it is.” It may have been a trick of the soft light, but Alex could have sworn the ghost of a smile wafted across the old woman’s features. “There’s no help for it now, is there? The pair of ye must needs wed and with no more dallying. No need to wrangle over the details on the morrow, Lord Rankin. We’ll have a wedding this very night.”

Aunt Hester waddled toward them, grasped both their hands and pressed them together. “I ken as how the contract specified Christmas Day for the ceremony, but I’ll be bound, I dinna trust the pair of ye to bide under the same roof until the knot’s been tied good and tight.”