The Bridegroom (31 page)

I might have died today without ever loving Mick … or telling Mick I love him
.

It had been her intention when she first came to Blackthorne hall to visit Mick’s manor house and tell him she wanted to be his lover. But the rains had come, and she had used the weather as an excuse to delay her sojourn. When the rain finally stopped, she had told herself it was indecent to leap into Mick’s bed when she had so recently been another man’s wife.

Excuses. I have always had a great many excuses for why my life is not as I want it to be. It is time to stop
being chicken-hearted. It is time to reach out for what I want. And I want to make love with Mick
.

That was as far as she would let her fantasy take her. Love, marriage, any kind of future together, all seemed quite impossible. Becky laughed softly. She did not even know if she could persuade Mick to make love to her. She only knew she had to try.

She managed to go back to bed, but not to sleep. In the hours before the sun rose, she tried to imagine how she might induce Mick to take her to bed. Unfortunately, this was her first attempt at seducing a man, and she lacked any useful experience. In the end, she decided she would arrive in her best looks and leave the rest up to Mick.

Becky took special care with her toilette, making sure a few curls were freed from the knot at her crown so that Mick might imagine pulling out the rest of the pins and letting it all fall down.

She chose a peach-colored, sprigged muslin dress with puffed sleeves and a V neck that revealed a mere hint of the feminine assets that had never been enough to satisfy her husband, but which she had caught Mick admiring. She put on her best straw hat, tying the blue plaid ribbon a little askew, hoping Mick would want to adjust it, providing an easy way for him to reach out to her.

Finally, she wore white gloves, which she planned to get dirty along the way, giving her an excuse to remove them, and opted for a parasol, rather than a fan. No sense getting needless freckles before she saw him.

Becky made sure Lily had breakfast and sent her off
with her nurse to play before she went looking for Kitt to explain her absence from the house, so that no one would get worried and come looking for her.

She found Kitt in the library with her father and announced, “I’m going for a walk to see how many different wildflowers I can find.”

“What a wonderful idea! Perhaps I’ll go with you,” Kitt replied.

Ordinarily, that would have been the end of that. Becky would have conceded defeat and come home with a faceful of freckles and a handful of wildflowers. With a willfulness that was frightening, it was so new, she said, “Actually, I would prefer to be by myself.”

“Oh,” Kitt said. “Well. Of course.”

Her father gave her a probing look that usually had the effect of launching her into a confession of whatever sin she was contemplating.

Becky resisted the urge to blurt out the truth. “Do not worry if I am not back for luncheon. I have asked Cook to prepare a basket to take along with me.”

Her father arched an inquiring brow, and she hurried from the room before she could succumb to the desire to confess everything.

It did not occur to Becky until she had walked half the distance to Albury Manor, where Mick was living, to wonder whether he would be there when she arrived. Becky thought she remembered Mick telling her yesterday on the ride back from the picnic that he would not see her the following morning, because he had bookkeeping that must be done at home. But what if he had since changed his mind?

Looking for a reason to turn around and go home? The sky would make a better one. It is filling with dark clouds. And that frilly parasol you brought along will not do you much good against a hard rain
.

In the end, Becky’s careful toilette proved a waste of time, since it began to pour while she was yet half a mile from Albury Manor. She was wearing a pretty cape, which quickly became soaked, and her straw bonnet began to sag under the weight of the rainwater. With every step she took, her slippers slung mud halfway up her back, and her hem was soon dirtied as well.

By the time she reached the back door of Albury Manor, Becky did not much care whether Mick was there or not. She doubted seriously whether the bedraggled female arriving on his doorstep would prove an irresistibly tempting feminine morsel. She was so frustrated, she could have cried, except that would only have added reddened eyes and a dripping nose to the list of her deficiencies.

The medieval stone manor house was much smaller than she had thought it would be, rectangular in shape, with a steeply peaked shingled roof. There were two narrow windows in front and two in back, which she thought must correspond to what could not be more than four rooms on the single floor that comprised the whole of it.

If she were ever to defy convention and marry Mick, this house—or one very like it, if her father dismissed Mick in outrage, and they had to move away—might be where she lived out the rest of her life. There was not even a separate room for Lily, let alone space for the
army of servants who now cared for her needs. It was daunting to contemplate such an existence.

But she had not been able to resist contemplating it. As she had learned only yesterday, life could end with frightening suddenness. It seemed foolish to deny herself the chance for happiness with Mick simply because people would talk. What she feared—what she doubted—was her own ability to learn how to do all the tasks that servants now performed for her.

She had decided to start with seducing Mick, and see how things progressed. There would be time enough later to decide whether she would make a good wife for him.

Becky knocked on the door, and when it was not answered immediately, she realized Mick probably was not at home after all. She had no idea whether he had any servants—there certainly was no room for them to live on the premises—but when she tried the doorknob, it opened without a sound, and she let herself in.

The house felt empty. The floor was made of uneven stone, so there were not even any creaking boards to give away her presence. She started to call out, but then felt silly. If anyone had been at home, they would have answered the door.

Becky found herself in a kitchen containing a cooking stove and a counter with a water pump attached. Everything was put away in its place, hanging on the wall or in a cupboard.

The room looked far larger on the inside than it had from the outside. Perhaps that was because there was so little in it. She set down her basket and wet parasol on
the small round table where she suspected Mick ate his meals. The door to the kitchen led to a hall, and she headed for it, intent on finding a fire to warm herself and dry her clothes.

Directly across from the kitchen she discovered a bedroom, the bed neatly made, the room uncluttered, quite spare in its furnishings. She spied one of Mick’s favorite waistcoats hanging from the bedstead and deduced it was his bedroom.

Shivering with cold, Becky hurried forward down the hall toward an open door on the left. A quick glance revealed a sofa and chairs, but otherwise the sitting room was empty. The fire had burned down to ashes without the grate being cleared and a new fire being laid. Becky had never shoveled ashes in her life, much less carried wood and laid a fire.

There were obviously no servants to do the work. If she lived here with Mick, either he must do it, or she must. Becky shivered again. Perhaps there was a fire in the other room or at least some wood near the other fireplace, so she would not have to go back outside hunting for it.

As she left the sitting room, Becky noticed for the first time that the door on the opposite side of the hall was closed. Was Mick inside? Was the closed door the reason he had not heard her knock?

It was tempting to let herself out as quietly as she had let herself in. Seeing where Mick lived—how he lived—forced her to acknowledge how difficult it would be for them to have any future together. Even if she could learn to do without, was it fair to subject Lily to such a fate?
To be honest, Becky was not sure she could adapt to a life where so much would be expected of her. What if she could not learn? She could not bear to become an additional burden on Mick.

All roads led back to the one great weakness in her character. It would take courage to give up the familiar. Courage to learn a new way of life. Courage to face the tabbies. And Becky had always been notoriously faint of heart.

She was standing in the hallway, still uncertain which way to turn, when the door opened, and Mick stood before her.

“Becky! Good grief, girl. What happened to you? What are you doing here? You’re soaking wet. Come in here by the fire and get warm. Here, let me get that bonnet off of you. Bear with me, the knot is stuck tight.”

Well
, Becky thought,
the bonnet has done its job. The rest is up to me
.

She smiled.

“I’m glad to see you have not lost your sense of humor,” he said. “There, that does it.” He held the sodden bonnet out in front of him. “Perhaps if I set it on the mantel it will regain some of its shape as it dries.” He came right back to her and started to work untying her cape. “This has to go as well. It’s sopping wet.”

She wondered if it had occurred to him that he was undressing her. She decided not to point it out to him, but concentrated instead on taking off her gloves.

“Here, sit down in this chair by the fire and let me get those half boots off. You’ll catch your death.”

She curled her fingers around his hand as he led her
over to a ladder-back chair that he pulled away from his desk and angled toward the fire. He pressed her into the chair with a hand on her shoulder, then knelt and took off her muddy half boots one at a time. He wiped the mud from his hands onto his trousers, which she could see were already soiled from whatever physical labor he must have done that morning.

“Your stockings are damp,” he said, reaching up under her skirt all the way to her knees and pulling first one down and then the other. “Better let them dry out, too.”

After he had pulled off the second stocking, but before he could rise and move away, Becky reached out and laid a hand on his head, running her fingers through his hair.

Mick froze.

She let her hand drop back into her lap. And waited to see what he would do.

Without looking at her, and without leaving his knee, he carefully untangled her white stockings and laid them across a wrought-iron bar that held tools for the fireplace.

In case Mick thought she had touched him accidentally, Becky reached out again. This time she brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek, then traced his lower lip with her thumb. She saw the pulse beating hard and fast in his throat. His eyelids were lowered, hiding his eyes from her.

Mick reminded her of a wild buck she had come across in the forest that was curious enough to stand and see what she would do, but ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

“What are you doing, Becky?” he asked in a low, husky voice.

She put her hand beneath his chin and tipped his face up, forcing him to look at her. Forcing herself to look him in the eye. She tried to smile, but could not get her mouth to cooperate. “I had a hope you might undress me completely in the interest of getting me warm. That would have been a great help in accomplishing what I came here to do.”

“What was that?” he asked.

She managed a crooked smile. “Seduce you.”

She waited for him to smile back, but his eyes had never looked more sober. His face had never looked more serious.

“I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want you,” he said. “But—”

She put one hand on his shoulder to keep him from rising, the other across his lips to cut off his speech. “Please don’t say it would not be honorable to lie with me. Please don’t say you owe my father too much to take advantage of me. And don’t tell me I will regret this later. The only thing I will regret is leaving here as untouched as I was when I came through your kitchen door.”

“Becky …” His eyes looked tortured. His shoulder had turned to iron beneath her hand.

“Love me, Mick,” she pleaded. “Show me how it feels to be loved.”

As he rose, her hand fell away, but her gaze remained locked with his. A second later he had lifted her into his arms. She linked her arms around his neck and laid her
head on his shoulder as he carried her out of his study and down the hall to his bedroom.

It was cold, because there was no fire, but he pulled down the covers on the bed and set her on the edge of it.

“Let’s get you out of this dress and under the covers where you can get warm,” he said quietly.

She turned her back so he could unbutton her dress, and lifted her bottom so he could peel it off of her without her setting her bare feet on the rough stone floor. She scooted under the covers before he could remove her chemise and pantalets, as modesty finally reared its head, and pulled the sheet and quilt up to her neck.

She stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, wondering what would happen next. Afraid, because she had no experience pleasing a man—she had never pleased Penrith—and she wanted very much to please Mick.

“Let me light a fire in here,” he said.

She wanted to shout,
“Can’t that wait?”
But she realized he was right. They would both be warm so long as they were making love, but afterward, when he was damp with sweat, as Penrith had often been, Mick was likely to get chilled.

She sat forward and watched what he did, thinking that she would need to pay attention to everything from now on, just to see if she could learn. In the end, it did not take very long to lay a fire. Just long enough for her nerves to begin to jump.

Mick must have seen the fear that had risen like an ensnaring snake to choke her, because he came to her without removing any of his clothes and sat down beside her and slowly began taking the pins from her hair.

“What has you grinning like the cat that got the cream?” he asked.

“When I tried to think of ways I might seduce you, I imagined you taking the pins from my hair.”