Smuggler's Lady (25 page)

That thought brought her out of bed with a surge of energy. His promised visit this morning must not find her unprepared. Her stomach fluttered at the thought. Even quarreling with Damian was better than the long weeks of his absence. But she did not want to quarrel with him, she wanted to hold him and be held by him, to feel the press of his lips on hers, the intimate, knowing brush of his fingers, the long hard length of him moving in possession as he bore her captured body and spirit to that plane where only sensation existed.

“I will bathe, Nan,” she declared energetically. “I am as dirty as a swineherd after all those days of travel. And I would like you to dress my hair as you used to. Do you remember how?”

Nan nodded. “Aye,” she said gruffly. “I remember well.”

An hour later, Meredith surveyed herself in the long pier glass. For the first time in three years she was dressed simply for the pleasure of it. There was no estate business that required one of her simple working gowns of faded print, no social event that necessitated one of her deliberately hideous outfits. The figured muslin might not rival one of Lady Beaumont's, but it was very pretty with a russet-colored pattern that complemented the rich auburn hair drawn into a soft knot on top of her head, a few side curls framing her face. A sash of the same russet outlined a waist whose smallness was one of her best features. All in all, Meredith decided, the effect was quite satisfactory. Bending, she dropped a grateful kiss on Nan's wizened cheek, receiving a gruff, “Go along with you, now,” in return.

An attentive footman escorted her to the breakfast parlor, a small room at the back of the house. A lean ascetic-looking gentleman was its only occupant. He looked up from his perusal of the
Gazette
at Merrie's entrance and rose swiftly. “Lady Blake, I must bid you welcome. I was unable to receive you last evening—a late debate in the House, you understand.”

“Yes, of course.” Meredith took the proffered hand, then the chair he pulled out for her. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Beaumont. It is most kind in you to let me come to you.”

“Oh, not at all, not at all,” he demurred. “Arabella will be most happy to entertain you.” A slight frown crossed his countenance. “To be quite frank, Lady Blake, she has been in a blue megrim since Georgy went to school, but the news of your arrival quite cheered her. I think it a capital scheme and hope that you will be as happy here as we are to have you.”

In the face of such a wholehearted statement, Meredith could do little but express her own pleasure in the arrangement. She was now dug in so deeply, it seemed, it would take an act of appalling discourtesy to extricate herself. For which, of course, she had only Rutherford to thank.

Seeing her host's eyes sliding surreptitiously to the newspaper beside his plate even as he attempted polite conversation, she said with a smile. “Pray do not feel you must entertain me, Lord Beaumont. I shall be very happy for you to read your paper. I have always felt conversation at the breakfast table to be an imposition.”

The marquis's relief was patent, and his guest went up even further in his estimation. A companionable silence fell between them as Meredith consumed an ample breakfast, wondering when she would be vouchsafed sight of her hostess. It was nearly ten o'clock before Arabella appeared, radiant in jonquil muslin, causing Meredith instantly to feel the country cousin.

Bella's greeting was so warm that Merrie put such disconsolate thoughts behind her. “George, you have not been reading the
Gazette
all the while Merrie has been here.” Bella took her husband to task as she received his morning salute on her cheek.

“Lady Blake said she preferred not to talk at the breakfast table,” her husband defended himself, looking in appeal at their guest.

She laughed. “Indeed I did, Bella. I would never come between a man and his newspaper before noon.”

“Well, my dear, I must be going.” The marquis moved to the door. “I shall be in my book room with Arnold if you should need me. I have a most important speech to write on the corn tax.”

“Yes, dear,” his wife replied tranquilly, pouring tea. “I do not suppose I shall need to disturb you.” She dipped a finger of toast into the tea and smiled a little sadly at Merrie. “Damian insists that George is not neglectful, and I daresay he has no intention of being so. He is very clever, you see, and is much relied upon by the Government.” The finger of toast disappeared between rosy lips. “It is most unfashionable in me to be always wanting my husband's company.” She sighed. “But love is not to be ruled by fashion.”

“No, I suppose it is not.” Merrie watched Bella's languid consumption of tea and toast with fascinated awe. “But then I know very little of the fashionable world, and I think, in such an instance, I would probably care not a jot for its dictates.”

Bella looked startled at this novel idea, then remembered what she knew of Merrie's history. “I do trust that you will take, my dear,” she said rather doubtfully. “You are most definitely out of the common way, but you cannot be
too
unconventional.”

“Take what?” Merrie asked, more than a little puzzled by this speech.

“Why, in society, of course.” Bella put down her teacup and rested her chin on an elbow-propped palm. “Do not be offended, Merrie, but while your gown may do very well in Cornwall, and, indeed, I think it quite fetching, you cannot be introduced until you have a new wardrobe.”

Meredith, having reached the same conclusion herself, was not offended. “I do not intend to be introduced, Bella, so it does not signify.”

Bella said carefully, “I do not think that will suit Damian.”

“What will not suit him?” There was a laugh in the voice coming from the door that had opened so quietly neither of them had heard.

A battalion of moths found a candle in Merrie's stomach. She looked at him and, in spite of her anger, felt herself opening like a crocus under the spring sun.

“Good morning, my little adventuress,” said he, softly.

“Good morning, Lord Rutherford.” He wore a many-caped driving coat that she would later learn signified his membership in the exclusive Four Horse Club. This he now removed, laying it with his gloves and a curly-brimmed beaver hat on a couch in the corner of the parlor.

“Sister.” He greeted Bella with a light kiss, observing, “you persist in maudling your insides with that slop, I see.”

“You are always so charming, brother,” Bella responded sweetly. “Do you care to join us?”

“Thank you, no. I breakfasted hours ago. But I will bear you company until Meredith is done with hers.”

He had not so much as shaken her hand, yet Merrie felt as weak and fluttery as a star-struck maiden. “I am quite finished,” she said with icy dignity.

“Then let us go and quarrel in private,” he responded amiably. “You will excuse us, Bella?”

“Yes, of course.” His sister looked anxiously at them. “Oh, dear. I do hope you will be able to resolve this. Why do you not go into the morning room and tell Grantly that you do not wish to be disturbed?”

Damian nodded, opening the door for Meredith, offering a small mock bow as she swept passed him. “To your right.” A warm palm fitted into the small of her back and the hairs on the nape of her neck lifted. He felt her quiver and smiled—a satisfied smile that Merrie, fortunately, did not see.

She found herself eased into another elegant apartment where the hangings and furnishings were of cheerful sunshine yellow. Appropriate enough for a morning room, she thought distractedly. The door clicked shut behind her and, with strange trepidation, Merrie turned to face the powerful figure behind her.

“I have missed you so much,” Damian said softly. “I did not know it was possible to miss anyone that much.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “No—no, I do not think that I shall permit you to quarrel with me.” It was an unequivocal statement, followed immediately with action as he swept her into his arms. Merrie had time for only a squeak of protest before all breath seemed to leave her under a relentless kiss that demanded, then enforced a response. Then all desire to protest vanished together with her will to resist the hands and body that, as always, felt so right in their proximity.

Still holding her against him, he moved backward to a chair. Releasing her tingling mouth, he let his hands drift slowly down her body as he sat in the chair, drawing her between his knees. Holding her hips lightly, he smiled up at her. “You look quite adorable with your hair like that. How is your leg?”

Without waiting for the reply that she seemed to be having difficulty making anyway, Damian very deliberately drew her muslin skirts and embroidered petticoat up to her hips.

“You
must
not!” she protested in a shocked whisper. “Supposing someone should come in.”

“A little reckless, is it not?” he agreed. “But I have vowed to satisfy your craving for danger whenever possible. Hold up your skirts. I must roll down your stocking if I am to look at your thigh.”

As if in a trance, Meredith found herself obeying, taking the soft bunched material at the front of her gown in her own hands as he untied her garter, laying it carefully on the arm of the chair before very slowly and delicately unrolling the thin silk stocking to her ankle. Meredith shivered as she stood, feeling the air on the bared, warm skin of her leg. Without a word, he pushed up the cuff of her white ruffled pantalettes. A manicured finger traced the long thin red line drawn toward the back of her thigh. “You will bear the scar,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It will serve as a reminder to you to act in future with reasonable caution.”

Meredith gaped at this cool audacity. “
You
cannot talk of reasonable caution—”

“Hush,” he directed, pressing his lips to the scar, his hands sliding behind, beneath her skirts, to grasp her bottom firmly. She swallowed, a heat wave gathering momentum in her belly. His lips moved upward, scorched through the thin lawn of her pantalettes as his hands gripped tighter and that most sensitive core of her vulnerability pulsed through the material under his lips. She was drifting on that curling wave of sensation, now so familiar, as he held her with one hand, the other slipping into the moist furrow where the secrets of desire opened to his touch. The sensation of being touched, yet not being touched as the protection of her undergarments prevented the contact of his skin on hers, drove Meredith into a state resembling frenzy. Unable to do anything but stand between his knees that pressed against her thighs, holding up her skirt, mutely offering herself to the invader who knew so well how to draw from her the notes of perfection, she shivered and shook as the curling wave carried her, ever higher on the crest of surf, finally to roll in on itself at the moment of her drowning.

“There now. You are not going to quarrel with me, are you, Meredith?” Rutherford inquired softly once the paroxysms had passed and she could stand without his support.

“The devil take you, Damian!” Merrie muttered weakly and without conviction.

He just laughed and rolled up her stocking, retying the garter with a deftness that bespoke practice. Her skirt slid back to her ankles and was smoothed carefully, lingeringly over her hips.

“Now, my love, to business.” The brisk tones added to Merrie's feeling of unreality. Dimly she realized that he was playing a clever game. By keeping her constantly disoriented, he ensured that she was unable to formulate, let alone to express, her anger at the blatant manipulation that had brought her to Cavendish Square. For the moment, she could not even think why she did not wish to be here. “Bella explained the plan to you?” Damian went on, watching her shrewdly, well satisfied with what he saw. In dealing with such a formidable opponent, one was obliged to put aside a strict code of honor. He was all too well aware of how few scruples she would have had if their roles were reversed.

“It is an outrageous plan and you know it.” Meredith found her voice at last. “This was not what we agreed.”

“And to what exactly did we agree, my little adventuress?” Sure of his ground, Rutherford lounged in his chair, flicking at the snowy-white tops of his riding boots with his handkerchief.

Merrie thought and saw the trap. When she remained silent, he said quietly, “a contract that became binding at Okehampton as I recall. Do I have it right?” His eyes fixed her like a worm on a hook, and she nodded, cursing her stupidity. “Tell me about the contract, Merrie?” he pressed gently.

“Oh, you are quite insufferable!” Swinging on her heel, she began to pace the room. He watched her with a slight smile, wondering whether her temper would find an outlet in hurling Arabella's possessions against the wall. “Utterly unscrupulous!” she declared almost breathlessly, striding across to him.

“Exactly so,” Rutherford agreed, possessing himself of her right hand, which he doubled into a fist. “You may hit me if it will make you feel better. Keep your thumb down so, and hit like that. Aim for the eye, or the nose if you prefer. Not my chin, you might hurt your hand.”

“Ohhh!” cried Meredith. “There are no words for what you are! You know you have me because I will not renege on an agreement. There is no need to be odious about it.”

Laughing, he pulled her down onto his knee. “Cry peace, my love. When you are accustomed to the idea, I promise that you will enjoy this adventure. You could not possibly have wished to live in seclusion in a genteel backwater. It would be a criminal waste of your talents. I predict that within the month, if you will put yourself unreservedly into Bella's hands, you will be all the rage.”

Meredith sighed, snuggling into the encircling arms, surrendering the battle she had known all along she would lose. At the beginning of this enterprise, she had agreed to accept Rutherford's terms unconditionally. They were not what she had expected, but her position in the Beaumont household would clearly not be one of pensioner. She could be of service to Arabella, thus discharging any sense of obligation. She knew, as she nestled against his chest, listened to the rhythmic thud of his heart beneath the gray coat, felt his hands stroking her cheek, that she could not forgo the opportunity to be with him for the time that was left to them. Besides, the prospect of taking an unwarranted place amongst the haut ton set the actress's toes tapping. The indigent, law-breaking widow of a Cornish baronet accepted by the highest sticklers; vouchers for Almack's, maybe. No, most certainly, if she were under the aegis of the house of Keighley.