Patrica Rice (24 page)

“You know he has not,” Gavin said as he strode into the room. He kissed his wife on the forehead. “Centuries of privilege cannot be turned around overnight. And the threat of violence only makes them more stubborn. You should have let us capture the dolts, Michael. You’ve not made my job easier.”

“It’s this system of injustice that should be on trial, not those angry young louts.” Michael spoke without heat, turning to face the room. “Someone must make government realize it stands on the backs of working men. When that foundation crumbles, authority crumbles with it.”

Gavin ran his hand through already rumpled hair. “I can only do one thing at a time. I find the child labor law most important right now.”

Before the argument could escalate further, Dillian stood up. “If you allowed women the vote, that law would be in effect now. And most of the others, I daresay. Blanche has the right of it. Men are too thick-headed to get anything done. We must work around you.”

“Blanche has returned?” Michael asked.

Dillian sent him a sharp look over her shoulder. “Did you think she would not? She has missed much of the Season, but she means to make up for it. She is interviewing stewards today and plans a rout for Friday night. I understand she’s expecting quite a crush.”

She swept from the room, leaving Michael thoughtfully scraping his toe on the carpet.

“The invitation includes all of us. Will you attend?” Gavin broke the silence.

As if he hadn’t heard, Michael gave up his toe sketching. “I’ve some business to take care of. Tell Dillian I’ll not be in for dinner.”

Since that wasn’t news, Gavin stayed where he was, fretting at a loose thread in his waistcoat and frowning at the carpet where his brother had stood.

* * *

The lamp sputtered on the vanity as Blanche pulled out the last of her hairpins and idly dragged her fingers through waist length locks. She’d sent her maid to bed hours ago. She would brush out the tangle herself tonight, once she summoned the energy to lift her brush.

She didn’t bother looking at the image in her mirror. She knew her porcelain doll appearance hadn’t changed, except perhaps for a small smudge of darkness beneath her eyes. The pink puckered scars on her brow still remained, although mostly hidden behind a thick fall of golden waves that curled artistically in just the right places. Her eyes still shone clear and blue, her lips looked untouched. No one would know her as the wicked wanton she was from that image in the mirror. No one but Michael, anyway.

The thin chemise she wore rubbed at sensitive breasts, and with a frown, Blanche tied her wrapper tighter. It didn’t help much. She felt a hollow in her mid-section that tempted her night and day. Most of the time, she could keep her hands away, but tonight, she was weary, and her fingers stroked the thin material over her abdomen. She was more aware of her body than she had ever been before in her life, now that she knew what it could do to her.

What she had done so daringly with Michael terrified her now that she was alone. The crush of people at dinner tonight had not made her feel any less alone. She’d tried talking to every man in attendance, but none affected her as Michael did.

She had no courage of her own, she’d discovered. She should have ignored Dillian’s ploy and come to London weeks ago, escaping Allendale and Benington’s protective custody. But she hadn’t had the courage. The knowledge that Michael was nearby and hadn’t come to her had sapped her confidence. Her anger at him sank beneath the quicksand of what she had once thought was the firm ground of their relationship.

Six weeks since she had seen him last. Pinching the bridge above her nose, Blanche rested her head against her hand. She had known what he was, walked straight into his arms knowing it, believing his wanderlust the ideal solution to her situation. She simply hadn’t counted on him leaving quite so soon. She hadn’t known she would ache for him.

Deciding she would untangle her hair in the morning, Blanche tied it back with a ribbon, blew out the lamp, and drifted toward the bed. Dropping her wrapper where she stood, she slid in between the cool sheets and tried desperately not to think of Michael’s warm body filling the space next to her. She curled her fingers around the thin gold band hanging from the chain about her neck.

The room held little light, but a shadow caught Blanche’s attention. Riveted, she watched the silhouette step into the pool of gray light from the window. Michael! Her heart skittered as he removed his coat and unfastened his cravat. He threw his outer garments over a chair and began unfastening his shirt. The breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist still had the power to take her breath away.

Scrambling to sit up against her pillows, Blanche pulled the sheet up to her chin.

“You’re mad! You cannot come in here like this. How did you get in?”

He discarded the shirt, and even in the poor light she could see the outline of muscled shoulders and arms as he sat on the bed beside her to remove his shoes. She thought her heart might pound through her chest or just split in two altogether. Michael had never acknowledged the barrier of walls. Or family.

“Did you think I would not?” He dropped the last shoe and leaned over her, one strong hand trapping the covers on the far side of her legs. “You must think me a singularly lacking lover or without the imagination of a hedgehog. I can assure you, I am neither.”

“You cannot!” she whispered, shocked, as he brushed a kiss against her cheek. She slid down beneath the sheets. Arguing would work better from a distance. Stripped to just his trousers, Michael halted her efforts by leaning forward and crushing her beneath his greater weight. His long legs came to rest atop the covers between hers. His proximity sent chills down her spine, and heat to her cheeks.

“But I can,” he reassured her, his voice a caress in her ears. “You gave me that right. Did you think I would yield it so quickly? We made vows, Blanche. I do not forsake mine.”

He spoke as if words said in the heat of passion meant the same as those said in a holy church. “You cannot just appear whenever it pleases you, take your pleasure, and depart,” she whispered angrily, shoving at his shoulders. The contact with his bare flesh seared her, but she fought the wave of desire. She had right on her side. She dropped her hands, just the same. “I will not be your mistress.”

Michael intertwined his fingers with hers against the pillow, holding them captive. “Unless we marry, I see no other alternative,” he replied without rancor, kissing the hollow beneath her ear.

His weight pressed against the length of her, his hands prevented movement, but his kiss drained all thought of fight. She turned her mouth eagerly to meet his lips. Perhaps she’d had too much wine with dinner. One kiss shouldn’t decimate her will like this. She turned her head away when he lifted his mouth. “No, Michael, we cannot.”

“Yes, Blanche, we can, and we will,” he responded firmly, then bent to suckle at her breast through the nightrail.

Desire exploded through her.

Still holding her captive, Michael used his teeth to open her ribbons. When the moist heat of his mouth fastened over her sensitive flesh, Blanche cried out in half protest, half surrender. His tongue teased her aching nipples. “What you gave to me, you cannot take back, my love,” Michael whispered against her hair as he raised his head and brushed her cheek with warm kisses. “You are the only woman I will ever know. Did you think me so fickle I would give you up easily?”

He released her hands to press her shoulders deeper into the pillows while he kissed her, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around him. She clung to the bare flesh of his wide shoulders while his mouth stole her will.

At what point the covers slipped away, Blanche couldn’t say. She only knew the rough chafing of his trousers between her legs was not what she wanted there. He lifted himself obediently when she reached for his buttons, kneeling over her and lavishing her breasts with attention while she worked the fastenings. When at last she freed him from confinement, her fingers clenched convulsively around his maleness.

His moan of pleasure as she stroked him startled Blanche into an awareness that had eluded her before. She had thought herself powerless in Michael’s arms, as she was powerless in all else, but she was not!

Boldly, she ran her fingers down the length of him, finding the root of his pleasure and cupping him there. With another moan, he stiffened, then leaned down to kiss her fervently.

Michael slid his hands beneath her hips, lifted her to him, and plunged deep and true between her legs. The power of his penetration stole her breath and made her weep with relief. Digging her fingers into his shoulders, kissing any portion of him she could reach, Blanche fell gladly into his wild rhythm, allowing him to carry her away on crashing waves of sensual pleasure. When at last she succumbed and collapsed, sated, Michael finally released his warmth deep inside of her, and Blanche hugged his shoulders and wept.

He kissed her tears and cuddled her between his heat and the wrinkled sheets.

“You make me feel like God,” he whispered. “I think I can raise the sun and lower the moon right now.”

Blanche chuckled through her tears. The sheets smelled of the musky scents of their love-making. She didn’t know how she could explain them to her maid in the morning. She didn’t know how she would explain Michael to anyone if he should remain. He had torn her life into tattered bits of worthless paper, but she couldn’t get enough of the touch of his hand, the weight of his body, the low humor of his masculine voice. He caressed her breast, and she arched into him, wanting more.

“We can’t,” she murmured sadly against his ear as he kissed the corner of her mouth.

“I thought I already put an end to that foolish argument,” he whispered, flicking his tongue along her earlobe. “Must I prove it again? We can, and we will.”

And they did.

* * *

Dawn had not yet succeeded in throwing its rosy hues across the bedroom floor when Blanche first awoke. But the gray light preceding dawn glinted against the gold of the medallion around Michael’s neck.

Still languorous from their love-making, she fiddled with the chain, brushing her fingers through the soft curls of hair on his chest. His arm around her tightened, and she sighed, stretching her legs to twine with his. Somewhere during the night, they’d divested themselves of what remained of their clothing. Lying naked in a man’s arms was as close to sin as she had ever come, and she enjoyed it.

“I have to send you away,” she murmured regretfully.

He stroked her hair. “I would not have it this way, Blanche,” he replied, more as if he spoke to himself than to her. “I would claim you before all the world if you would let me.”

She shivered in denial. They could not marry, not if she wished any control of her future. She would rather play with the chain hanging between dark male nipples. She touched one flat bud experimentally, and felt his intake of breath. All in the interest of science, she leaned over and licked the crest she’d caused to pucker with her touch.

Michael grabbed her hair and tugged her back, but not before she’d felt the muscles of his abdomen tighten and knew the thrust of his masculinity against her.

Her gaze met the muddy green of his eyes.

“I am trying hard not to scandalize our families,” he said from between gritted teeth. “But I won’t give you up just to appease anyone’s social conscience.”

Her stomach churned with alarm at the intensity of his expression. Blanche pulled back, studying him with care. Her family had never given her any experience in fidelity. Her eyes widened at the thought of Michael not leaving, as she supposed he would.

Wide, tanned shoulders appeared permanently affixed to her lacy pillows. Over-long auburn hair brushed the top of her headboard as he sat up, his arms crossed belligerently across his muscled chest. She couldn’t move this man from her bed if she tried, his posture seemed to say. Her stomach roiled even more.

“We’ll talk of this another time,” she said, swallowing her fear. “You’d best leave before it’s light.”

“And if I choose not to leave?” he asked with ominous calm.

He’d always been able to read her thoughts. Stomach churning, Blanche rolled to the side of the bed and sat up. The motion sent acid spewing upward, and with horror, she dashed for the chamber pot.

As she collapsed on the floor with the bowl, retching up last night’s dinner, Michael knelt beside her, pulling the long strands of hair out of her face, and holding back the chain with his ring around her neck. They were both naked as the day they were born, kneeling on the cold floor in dawn’s first light, and the reality of it embarrassed Blanche to her very core.

She couldn’t hide behind the shadows of night, tucking the images of what they did away with the dawn as if they were no more than dreams. Reality had her insides heaving into a bowl. Reality was that she’d allowed this man to put himself inside her and place his seed there. Reality was bedding a man with no name, no home, and no future.

She wanted to shake off his comforting hands, but she needed the security of Michael’s presence. His solidity somehow made the crash with reality a little easier. When the retching finally stopped, he wrapped her in a blanket and brought her a glass of water while she kneeled over the chamber pot, afraid to move. She concentrated on his toes rather than meet his eyes. He had long toes with fine hairs on them.

If it was possible to hear a man’s hesitation, she heard it in his silence. He could not know for certain that what they had done had borne fruit. She would keep him from asking. She could still go to Europe.

“The cook must have put mushrooms in the sauce last night,” she said weakly. “I have told him my stomach cannot abide mushrooms, but he will not listen. Men never do.”

Michael crouched before her. He tried tilting her chin so she met his gaze, but Blanche would not. Her heart cried out in despair and protest at the unfairness of it all.

“I never knew my mother or father,” he said, speaking to the side of her face. “I’ve never known my real name. I’ve always felt as out of place with Gavin’s family as a cuckoo in a hen’s nest.”