The Contraband Courtship (The Arlingbys Book 2) (25 page)

Malcolm kissed her lingeringly again, and then straightened up, giving her a light smack on the rump.

“That’s enough, my sweet,” he said carelessly. “Mr. Waylesworth is riding over to join us for dinner at Wroxton Hall, and it would be very rude to keep him waiting.”

Helena looked at him in shock, conscious of her wayward body demanding more of the earl’s skillful touch. A wave of disappointment washed over her.

“Can you not stay a few minutes?” she whispered. “It doesn’t have to take long.”

He ran a finger along her collarbone. “Wanton,” he murmured. “Abstinence is good for the soul, my dear. You missed your chance today. Only think how much more eager you will be for me tomorrow. I know I will be pondering it.”

Helena closed her eyes, torn between her blatant need for him and chagrin that he could read her so clearly. She summoned up her pride and ignored the desire coursing through her veins. “What a pity that you must go, Wroxton,” she said, stepping back from him. “I hope the three of you have a pleasant evening.”

“Four. I invited Arthur as well.”

Helena struggled for a moment with her emotions, and then grinned. “Well played, my lord,” she said.

Malcolm gave her a look of injured innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Helena raised a hand to cup him, and felt a thrill or power as he instantly hardened. “Two can play at that game,” she said. “I will be thinking of you tonight, alone in my bed. While you and Mr. Delaney play cards with my brother and Mr. Waylesworth, you can contemplate what you have missed.”

If Helena thought to defeat Malcolm, she was disappointed. “I will indeed,” he promised. He placed her hand on his arm and led her back to the manor.

If Helena was nervous the next day when she arrived at Wroxton Hall she didn’t show it, and the earl greeted her with a calm courtesy that set her at ease. He gravely discussed the types of flowers that would be available the week of the ball, and acquiesced with her recommended varieties. He lounged politely in a chair, nodding, as she discussed the dinner to be served before the ball with the housekeeper, Mrs. Macomber, and even stirred himself to request the addition of turbot
bercy aux champignons
to the menu.

“I had it once, in Copenhagen,” he said mildly, when Helena glanced at him in surprise. “I asked my hostess what it was called.”’

“Did she give you the recipe?” she asked tartly.

“Not that one, no,” he murmured. “But I feel sure Mrs. Macomber will rise to the occasion.”

The housekeeper made some reassuring sounds, and Helena, her eyes sparkling with amusement, turned back to her lists.

“I think two tureens of soup will be fine with the fish,” said Helena as Mrs. Macomber nodded, “one white and one brown. Do you prefer a roasted leg of mutton, or turkey with puree of chestnut?”

“Hmmm?” Malcolm stirred, his mind pulled away from his contemplation of the auburn curls that clustered against Helena’s slender neck.

Helena stifled a laugh. “Turkey, or mutton?”

“Are those the only choices?”

“We could have partridges
a l’Espagnole,”
she answered, her eyes dancing.

“Whatever pleases you.” He watched for a moment as Helena’s slender hands moved the pen delicately across the page, and then stood abruptly. “I’m bored,” he complained. “I’ve listened to this discussion for what must be hours now. Come outside with me.”

Helena looked up, surprised, and Mrs. Macomber quickly slid the papers out from under her hands.

“Go with his lordship,” she said indulgently. “I’m sure I can choose between partridges, turkey, and mutton my own.”

“Precisely,” said Malcolm. “I bow to your superior knowledge, Mrs. Macomber. Miss Keighley?”

He proffered his arm with mock seriousness, and Helena stood, pretending not to notice as Mrs. Macomber beamed at them. Malcolm led her through the house and out onto the terrace, where he paused.

“That’s better,” he said. “That conversation was altogether too dull, when the sun is shining and the gardens beckon.”

“The plans will never be done if you keep growing bored,” she teased.

“Nonsense. We have engaged musicians, and planned menus, and discussed wines and refreshments, and the card room, and the flowers, and how many candles we shall need, until I am well nigh sick of the thought of them. Buy ten thousand candles, so I need not think of them again.” Malcolm gestured extravagantly as he led her down the steps. “I hate them all, as you think of them and not of me.”

“Someone must,” said Helena practically.

“I pay Mrs. Macomber handsomely to do so. Should you not be thinking of the smugglers? After all, the ball is a mere ruse, is it not?”

“That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be lovely. After all, Wroxton Hall is your home, and you must want people to admire it.”

“I’m just pleased that you do.” Malcolm watched with delight as she flushed slightly. “You do like Wroxton Hall, do you not?”

“It’s lovely,” enthused Helena.

They turned the corner of a high hedge and entered the rose garden. Helena stopped short at the sight of a table on the lawn at its edge, white linen and fine silver gleaming in the sunshine. A repast of cold dishes was laid out and a bottle of wine stood open, waiting to be poured into the sparkling glasses.

“I thought you might be hungry after your labors,” said Malcolm lightly. “Will you join me?”

Helena hesitated, and then nodded, allowing him to seat her at the table. She watched as he took his place across from her and poured some wine into her glass. He picked up a plate of strawberries and offered them to her.

“I felt I should thank you for your efforts,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I am not grateful.”

Helena chose a berry and raised it to her lips as Malcolm watched avidly. “This is very thoughtful of you, my lord.”

Malcolm blinked and put the plate down within her reach. He took a slice of bread and put some meat and cheese on it, conveying it to his own plate. “The servants doubtless think me mad,” he said. “First I drink tea because of you and now I am having luncheon—a lady’s meal.”

Helena chuckled. “Because men never get hungry during the day. You doubtless eat at some point—a cold meal at your club when you are in town, or a bird and a bottle in a tavern. What is wrong with eating at a proper table?”

“Nothing at all.” Malcolm took a sip of wine and leaned back in his chair, holding the glass in his long fingers and watching her consume another strawberry. The breeze lifted the tendrils of hair from her brow and blew them softly away from her face. “If we could dine every day in a rose garden, I would be only too pleased.”

Helena looked around, faintly nervous. “Are we alone?”

“I threatened the servants with dire punishments if they came anywhere near us, and I banished Del to Folkestone for the day.”

“Poor Mr. Delaney,” said Helena absently.

“Don’t think about him,” ordered Malcolm. “I want you to think about me.”

“You?” Helena did not tell him she’d thought of little else lately. “I have been thinking of menus, musicians, and medallions of veal.”

“Things that start with ‘m’,” said Malcolm. “As does Malcolm.”

Helena laughed. “Yes, those things, and smugglers.”

He sighed. “Always, the damn Gentlemen steal my thunder. I have been corresponding with the Lord Lieutenant, and he will send excisemen to assist in our efforts the night of the ball. We must meet with a riding officer to make plans, but I cannot be seen in his company, and I know I’m being watched. I will have to ask Del and possibly Brayleigh to assist us when he arrives.”

“Will it be very dangerous?” asked Helena.

“I hope not,” answered Malcolm. “There is always a chance something might happen, but I would not wish for anyone to be injured.”

“Not even Denby?”

“Ah. Denby. That is another matter entirely. You need not think of him again, Helena.”

“I will try not to,” she promised.

Malcolm took a sip of his wine. “I will have to leave the ball at some point, and meet the excisemen. Some of the men may accompany me. I don’t think our absence will be noted; the guests will presume we are in another room, but you and Rowena can offer excuses for us if anyone asks.”

Helena shot him a glance across the rim of her glass, but said nothing.

“With any luck,” he continued, “we’ll be gone less than an hour. We will trail them to wherever they unload their goods, and spring our trap. We will watch Denby and leave when he does.”

“Denby will be at the ball?” said Helena sharply.

“He must. It would look odd to not invite him, and I hope he comes so we can keep an eye on him.”

“I suppose you are right.” Helena turned to a plate of little cakes nestled on the table in front of her. “These are lovely. Perhaps I should ask Cook to make some for the ball.”

“You must stop thinking of
madeleines
and musicians.” Malcolm’s hand closed over hers.

“And think of you instead?” She tried to ignore the warmth of his skin as his thumb caressed the inside of her wrist.

“Precisely.” He looked up, taking in the rose bushes, heavy with blooms in shades of pink and red, their sweet scent hanging in the air. A high hedge enclosed the flowers, its bright green leaves shivering in the slight breeze, and a marble statue of Apollo gazed benignly down from its pedestal. “Do you remember how I once said I would take you here in the garden?”

Helena’s other hand paused in the act of picking up a cake, and she glanced up at him. He grinned and reached across the table, deftly scooping up the cake she had suddenly forgotten, raising it to her lips. “Open,” he murmured seductively.

She obeyed, biting into the pastry. Malcolm watched avidly as she licked at the cream filling that lingered on her lips.

As her gaze met his, Helena felt the now familiar yearning for him flooding her, as though her body had a will of her own, and longed for his possession. When he leaned forward, murmuring, “Let me help you,” and slicked his tongue over her lips, before taking them in a soul-devouring kiss, she opened to him willingly, luxuriating in the hot silk sweep of his tongue and the sweet taste of the cream.

Malcolm lifted his lips from hers. “I think we need to be more comfortable,” he said, and turned in his chair to reach for one of the hampers placed near their table. He opened it, removing a silk coverlet, which he spread out across the lawn under Helena’s bemused gaze. He took her hand, raising her to her feet before dropping to his knees before her and urging her down next to him. As she knelt too, he took her face gently in both of his hands, turning it to achieve the perfect contact, and kissed her. Heat flared through her, and she pressed against his chest, seeking relief. Malcolm smiled, and palmed one breast with a knowing hand, caressing her, stoking her desire.

“I think we will be far much more comfortable if we lie down,” he whispered, relaxing back onto the silk, drawing Helena down on top of him. For a moment he gazed at her as though nothing else mattered, and then he quickly rolled her over onto her back, covering her as his lips found hers again and his hands busied themselves with bringing her pleasure.

Later, sated, they lay peacefully together, Helena gazing up at the cloudless sky, Malcolm’s head cushioned on her breast. She could hear birds singing and smell the lush scent of roses wafting on the breeze.

“I think luncheon is a highly under-rated meal,” observed Malcolm. “If other gentlemen knew how delightful it could be, I feel they would participate enthusiastically.” He stood for a moment, allowing her a view of his muscular legs and narrow hips, before taking the plates of cakes and strawberries from the table and settling down next her again. She tried to wave his hand away as he held one of the petit fours to her lips, but he leaned in and nipped gently at her neck. As she gasped, he slid it into her mouth, and she bit down, her eyes closing as the sweet cake dissolved away.

“I need you to be nourished,” said Malcolm softly. “It wouldn’t do for you to lose your strength.”

Helena relaxed, savoring the moment, but her eyes popped open as she felt something cool on her nipples, and she looked down to see that Malcolm had taken a strawberry and, splitting it in two, decorated the tips of her rounded breasts with the fruit. He sat back on his heels and looked at her admiringly.

“They’re scarcely pinker than the real things,” he said teasingly. When she squeaked a protest and tried to sit up, he placed a warm hand on her stomach, holding her gently in place. “Let me do that, darling,” he murmured.

He leaned in and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking and teasing it with his tongue as the sweet juice of the strawberry trickled down the side of her breast. He licked after it, murmuring lavish words of praise, and then turned his attention to the other breast, attending to it just as fully, and with maddening slowness. He cupped the other in his hand, his fingers gently plucking at her hard and distended nipple with casual ease.

“Yes, I definitely enjoy luncheon,” he said finally, gazing down at her.

Helena groaned. “You are far too good at this,” she said with a touch of temper.

“You seem to be able to keep up.” Malcolm lay down next to her and drew her close, cradling her body in his arms. She made a sound of contentment.

“Can any woman keep up with the Wicked Earl?” teased Helena. She slid her leg up against his.

“I wish you would not call me that,” said Malcolm quietly.

“Why not? I mean nothing by it,” said Helena.

“But it does mean something.” Malcolm ran his hand along her arm, and she shivered slightly. “People say that who have never looked beyond the stories of my scandalous youth. You, of all people, must know that people seek the bad, rather than the good, in any story.”

“My scandal is meager, compared to yours,” said Helena. “Do you now mean to tell me you did not own a gaming house in Berlin, or become the lover of Princess Elisabeth of Hohenzolern-Sigmaringen, or live in the palace in Constantinople as a pasha?

“All that and more, my dear. But I was a boy then; when I was banished from my home for a crime I did not commit I was younger than you are now and barely older than Arthur. My father, who thought me guilty, sent little money, and that infrequently. He told my sister, and the rest of the world, that I was dead. I was twenty-one, friendless and almost penniless, in a foreign place with a foreign tongue. I had no choice but to live by my wits.”

Helena turned in his arms and looked into his face. “How terrible. Yet you always make light of it.”

“It doesn’t pay to dwell on it now; it is over and done,” said Malcolm. His hand slid down to cup one buttock and pull her closer. “I was very lonely at first. Life is difficult and dangerous when you are a friendless, nearly penniless foreigner. I had to learn to protect myself, because the things I had relied upon, my name and family, meant nothing. There were times when winning a card game was all that stood between me and hunger, and it seemed I had nothing but enemies.”