The Gamekeeper's Lady (9 page)

He opened his mouth. Her insides clenched more powerfully than anything she had experienced during her imaginings. His hands slid up her back, drawing her closer. Lips, warm and soft, moved over hers with persuasive pressure. Her lips parted in response.

‘Oh, yes, sweetheart,’ he murmured against her mouth. He licked her lower lip. A delicious thrill trickled down her spine. See, she did know. It was in her blood. She slid her hands around his neck, ran her fingers through his hair.

He angled his head, his mouth moving and coaxing and teasing. Chills shivered through her body, leaving her weak. She parted her lips to his teasing tongue and she clung to him, panting against his wonderful mouth.

He pulled away. ‘God, give me strength.’

Ragged breaths shaking her frame, she watched him rub his palms on his thighs and realised his breathing was equally fast. ‘That is all you want?’

He half-laughed, half-groaned. ‘What I want and what I can take are very different.’

While she didn’t know exactly what she wanted, she knew they had been heading in the right direction during their kiss, and that it was just the beginning. When she worked on a sketch, each pencil stroke brought the design closer to completion. Heavenly perfection, if done well, a disaster if one misplaced a line. In the art of kissing, he was her master, and it seemed he was not prepared to complete this work.

‘You find me lacking?’

‘You little fool. I’m doing this for your sake. You are a lady. I’m…nothing. You will only ruin yourself.’ The words seemed torn from him, regretful, as if he truly did not want to stop.

A sense of empowerment glowed within her, drove her to reckless abandon. She was, after all, the bastard daughter of the Wynchwood Whore. ‘I am already ruined.’

Ruined? The word was a siren song to Robert’s beleaguered senses. He’d meant to frighten her off. Scare her silly. Instead, he’d found himself battling the demon of self-control. Was this what the cook meant by devil’s spawn? That this child-woman really was not the innocent she seemed? Was she his kind of woman after all? The kind who enjoyed casual, carefree encounters? The kind who had sampled others before him?

His brain, still hazy with drink and clouded by lust, was partly hopeful and partly angered at the thought of another man with his hands on her delicate body.

‘Kiss me, R-Robert, please.’

Did she have any idea how alluring he found her little hesitation when she said his name? God, he hoped not, or he was lost.

He pulled her slight frame against him, cradled her in his arms, her hips against his groin, her small hands curled on his chest. It felt right. Too right. More than he deserved.

His heart sang when she lifted her face to him, her full lips begging to be kissed.

He couldn’t look at her enough. It was as if he needed to absorb her into his skin, into the empty place in his chest that had been cold and hard and now felt soft and warm and full of longing.

She stroked his jaw. He hadn’t shaved. He captured her fine-boned fingers, kissed the palm of her hand, her wrist, the inside of her elbow, felt her shiver of desire in the deepest fibre of his being.

Heaven could not be more blissful.

He caressed her back. Her neck above her woollen gown felt like silk. Exquisitely soft.

He slipped one hand under her knees and lifted her. Arms around his neck, she snuggled against his shoulder as if she belonged there. He buried his face in her hair, inhaled her unique scent. Intoxicated, he carried her to his cot where he lay her down. She gazed up at him, then raised her hands above her head, seemingly submissive, yet her sea-green and mysterious eyes held a glint of a dare.

Desire flamed in his body. Out of control, and yet control it he must. He swallowed a growl of frustration and knelt beside the bed. She captured his hand, kissed the knuckles one by one, her moist tongue lapping at his skin like a cat, tasting him.

‘Lie down with me, R-Robert.’ Her husky voice grazed the most sensitive parts of his body.

Desire, heat, lust, pooled in his loins. ‘Are you sure?’ He ground out the question from a throat so tight it hurt to speak. Even as the words left his mouth, in some deep part of him he dreaded her reply, whichever it was.

‘Yes.’

His body demanded it, even as his brain advised caution. Damn caution. He’d given her every chance to leave. She understood exactly what she was doing. He dipped his head to taste of her mouth, to savour her honeyed sweetness with his tongue, and lost his senses.

Light, fluttering, teasing, her hands roamed his back, smoothed his shoulders, explored his chest and arms and set his skin on fire.

His tongue swept her mouth, his palm found her high, small breast beneath her bodice. The nipple pearled against his palm, begging for his mouth, his tongue.

She moaned when he squeezed her beautiful soft flesh. Her tongue flickered over his lips, then plunged into his mouth.

Hard as a rock, he wanted to ravage her, fill her with his essence, cover her with his scent, brand her as his own, possess her body and spirit. Dear God. No woman had ever brought him to such a state of mindless passion.

Where now was his legendary control? He hauled in a deep breath. She deserved more than a hurried engagement of the flesh, no matter how much he wanted to sheathe himself inside her heat.

Slow. Steady. Focus on her needs, her desires. He inhaled. With each deep breath, his heartbeat eased to a manageable level and control slid back into his grasp. He trailed kisses across her jaw, and soaked up her sigh of pleasure. He brushed his lips across the hollow of her throat and tasted the rapid pulse beat with his tongue.

Her thighs fell apart as if her limbs were now his to command. He licked the rise of flesh above her stays. He grazed her nipple through her chemise, then blew on the damp fabric. She shuddered and her hips bucked beneath him.

‘Slowly, love,’ he whispered. He caressed her ribs. Front closing stays, thank God. He untied the bow at her bosom. Firelight gilded her elfin face and threw mystic shadows across her face. A woodland sprite, a magical being who filled him with tenderness.

Between kisses on her lips and cheek and chin, he unlaced her ties. Finally loose, he tossed the stays away and eased her chemise upwards over a beautifully turned knee, exposed her thigh, where he pressed little kisses all the way to her hip. He shuddered on an indrawn breath at the sight of her pale brown nest of curls.

Intending to reassure, he glanced at her with a smile and found her watching him, her eyes full of firelight, her chest rising and falling, her body tense as if she might flee.

‘May I remove your chemise?’ he asked.

She nodded and bit her lip.

Despite his body’s protest, he paused. ‘Are you sure?’

Again she nodded, her gaze drifting down his body. ‘Are you?’

‘Oh, yes, my sweet. Very sure.’ He drew the filmy fabric over her head and gazed in awe at her loveliness. A tiny waist hollowed beneath ribs he could count, his gaze lingered on peach-sized breasts with skin so translucent the blue veins shone beneath. He swallowed and let his gaze wander her elegant length, springy curls at the juncture of her thighs, already bedewed with her moisture, just waiting for him, strong legs that would wrap his hips when finally he rode her to bliss.

The grey woollen stockings held up by sturdy garters hid her calves and feet from view. He ran his forefinger under one stocking top and smiled at her. ‘These too must go.’

The hiss of her indrawn breath tightened his balls. He almost lunged at her as desire clawed at his vitals. Not yet. Hand shaking, he rolled the garter down her leg and off, then tugged on the stocking until it slipped down her leg, inch by inch. He kissed each and every bit of beautiful skin thus exposed until he reached her toes.

Before he could say her nay, she stripped off the other stocking and tossed it aside.

Naked, she lay back. Her voracious gaze roved his body. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. A shudder ran through him.

‘Take off your trousers,’ she said.

It was only fair. He stripped them off, grateful to be free of the confinement; his erection rose hard against his belly.

‘Oh, my,’ she whispered. ‘It is lovely like this.’ She reached out and touched the head of his shaft.

It jerked in response.

‘Oh.’

He groaned. ‘Any more of that and I will disgrace myself.’

‘Then hurry up.’

‘Demanding, aren’t we?’ In any other woman, he would have hated that demand. From her, it made his heart swell. ‘Then I must obey, my lady.’

Careful not to crush her delicate form, he covered her with his body, took her lips in a kiss that demanded attention and heard her moans with deep satisfaction.

He caressed her, and kissed her breasts. She kissed him back, licked his ear, nibbled at his neck, her thighs open, her hips arching up begging for his attention. ‘Soon, little one,’ he crooned.

He stroked her hips, her swell of thigh, and suckled at her breast, until she became wild, her small fists beating at his shoulders, demanding what she wanted. Finally, he allowed himself to enter her body, to stroke the pulsing inner flesh with his shaft, to bring her to the height of passion, where he called on all of his skill with his hands and mouth to keep her trembling at the brink.

‘Please, R-Robert,’ she moaned.

Raging desire ran rivers through his blood. He could not hold back any longer. He drove deep into her warm depths, pounding into her in fierce possession. He couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stop. God, if she didn’t reach her climax…He shifted his weight, found the little nubbin of her pleasure, circled his thumb.

She shuddered, moaned his name, shattered around his shaft.

He wanted to die inside her.

Some small scrap of sense exerted itself and he pulled free, shuddering to a finish on her belly while she lay boneless beneath him.

He cleaned her up with a corner of the quilt and pulled her into his arms.

What the hell had just happened? One second he’d been in control, the next he’d been a raging animal. He pulled the quilt over her sleeping form, glancing down into her pale face, still blissful.

This was what she’d come for, of course. Not the drawing. Like all the other women in his life, he’d seen it in her eyes. And he’d not been able to turn her away, despite his good intentions. He’d have been a lot less susceptible if he hadn’t been celibate for nigh on two years. He’d never been without a woman for so long since he’d first discovered sex at the age of fifteen.

No excuses, Robert.
Apparently, Father was right. He was nothing but a dissolute wastrel. He’d risked everything for a few moments of satiation and the warmth of woman’s arms.

He felt like the worst kind of cur. He’d wanted to protect her, but he’d been unable to protect her from himself. This must not happen again.

On a slow, pulsing tide, Frederica’s spirit returned to her body. For long moments she floated on the heat of passion, listening to her heart, hearing his breathing slow, his hand warm about her shoulders and hip. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she had drifted into a harbour, safe from all the storms of her existence. How much time had elapsed? Hours, minutes? She had no idea. She only knew she wanted to remain here, cradled in his arms for ever.

Yet it could not be. Following her destiny required leaving England.

The breathing at her side was not the deep measured rhythm of sleep, just a steady rise and fall. She glanced up to find him watching her, his expression unreadable.

‘I thought you were awake,’ he said, his voice rumbling in his wide chest against her ear. ‘I must get you home before you are missed.’

Conscious of her nakedness beneath his steady gaze, she sat up and pulled on her shift. He helped her with her stays and began fastening her gown.

He looked at her with eyes so bleak she shivered.

‘I’ll see you to the bridge,’ he said. ‘I won’t come any farther, in case we are seen from the house. And whatever you do, promise you won’t let anyone see that drawing.’

‘I won’t. I’ll bring you the money for the sitting as soon as—’

‘No. I don’t want your money. Consider it another gift.’ He pressed the book into her hands, opened the door and looked at her coldly. ‘Do not come here any more.’

The words sounded as chill to her ear as the sleet felt on her face.

Chapter Seven

T
he next morning, Frederica set the portrait on an easel. She’d risen early to draw in the hands, and changed the cot into a roman divan and the rough blanket into a dark velvet throw.

In her eyes, he looked gorgeous. She shifted the easel to catch the north light and squinted at the drawing, trying to view it with dispassion, when all she could think about was his hands on her body and the beautiful, terrible passion.

Had she captured the spirit of the man?

A scratch at the door. She jerked around, standing in front of the picture as Snively stepped in. ‘Good morning, miss.’ He raised a brow at the easel.

‘G-good morning, Snively. W-what can I do for you?’

‘A letter came from Dr Travis.’

‘Oh, good.’ She stepped forwards to take it, then stopped. ‘Er…would you put it on the desk?’

‘Certainly, miss. I hope it is good news.’

‘So do I,’ she said with an embarrassed smile, wishing he would go.

‘Should be a nice little nest egg when all’s said and done.’ She’d told Snively about her contract with the doctor. She hadn’t wanted the letters ending up on her uncle’s desk to be opened without her knowledge. Snively, as usual, had been more than happy to help.

‘As soon as I get the fox finished…’ she nodded at the drawings on the desk ‘…he’ll send the final payment.’

The butler set the letter down right next to the rough draft of Robert’s hands. He leaned to his left, looking over her shoulder. ‘Nice. Does him justice.’

Heat flooded her face. ‘I drew it from imagination.’

‘The kind of imagination that brings you home at three in the morning.’

She gasped.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone, but be careful of that young man, miss. He’s not all he seems.’

Her heart sank. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s just a feeling, miss. But you’ve trusted me before to put you right, so this is my advice. You’ve got through things pretty well up to now. Don’t do anything rash. Your birthday is coming up. Your majority. Everything will seem much clearer then.’

‘How?’

He tugged at his cravat. ‘I can’t say, miss. It’s this feeling I have.’

‘The same feeling you have about Mr Deveril.’

He glanced at the picture. ‘No. That’s a different feeling altogether.’ His craggy face shifted into the small smile he sometimes gave her. ‘It’s very good, that picture, but you better not let anyone else see it.’

‘On that I will take your advice, Mr Snively.’

‘On the other too, I hope, miss.’ He bowed and departed with his usual dignity.

Frederica pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. How could she have been so careless? She whisked the easel into the corner and turned it to face the wall. She covered it with an old shawl.

Dear old Snively, never one to get in a flap. And she could rely on him to keep quiet about what he’d seen, but if one of the other servants had walked in and seen the picture, there would have been a horrible fuss.

Could he have guessed just by looking at her that things had gone much further than her drawing Robert’s picture? Did she look different?

She felt different. More like a woman. For a while, she’d felt desirable too. Their lovemaking had been so utterly wonderful. To her.

‘Don’t come here again.’ He’d sounded weary.

Perhaps she’d disappointed him in some way. That must be it. Before they’d made love, they had been friends. Now, it seemed, they were nothing. He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. When they walked home through the woods, he’d said not a word.

And he’d refused to accept any money. Did he consider she’d paid him with her favours? A rather horrid thought. It sounded like something her mother would do.

Or was it something much more mundane? Did he fear she’d betray him to her uncle? Well, she wouldn’t. Never.

Frederica picked up the letter from the desk. Her hand shook as she read Dr Travis’s words. He wrote first of his delight with the drawings received so far. He was happy to accept them for his book.

Her heart seemed to stop in her chest. He liked her work. It was going to be published. In a book. Dreams did come true. Even if they could not be published in her own name.

He noted that the first instalment bank draft awaited her, or rather waited for a Mr Smith, at the publisher’s office in London. The second instalment would be paid on publication.

Her excitement subsided. It might take months for publication. She’d understood the final and much larger payment would be due on delivery of the last of the pictures. Without all of the money right away she wouldn’t have enough to leave Wynchwood.

She picked up a pen and dipped it in the ink. Slowly and carefully, she pointed out that this was not how she had understood his offer. If she provided everything he asked for on time, should he not be equally as timely?

Feeling rather bold, she sanded the letter and folded it. She’d have to await his answer, before making her own plans. Another delay.

And then there was the matter of her unwanted chaperon. The meeting with Lady Radthorn this morning. No doubt the dowager countess would find her a dreadful disappointment. Too thin. Too plain. The thought of trying on gowns in front of the elegant lady made her stomach churn.

Nothing too expensive, Uncle Mortimer had begged, even as Frederica had begged him to let her cry off from the ball. Not even her lack of knowledge of the waltz had changed his mind. Just sit it out, he’d advised. Tell anyone who asks that I do not approve of such scandalous cavorting.

Scandalous cavorting, like her mother. They’d be shocked if they knew she’d been doing a bit of scandalous cavorting of her own. After all,
a bad apple never falls far from the tree,
Uncle Mortimer always said. She glanced down at the letters, her key to leaving the tree far behind. Carefully, she tucked the doctor’s letter into her clothes press and her reply in her pocket.

Until the doctor’s answer came, she had a role to play. Uncle Mortimer must not suspect a thing, which meant facing Lady Radthorn.

There was one good thing, though. On her way through the village, she could post her reply to Dr Travis.

Stomach fluttering as if it might fly off by itself, Frederica followed the Radthorn butler’s directions into an impressive drawing room full of family portraits and gilt furniture.

An elegantly gowned middle-aged woman with grey dusting her pale gold hair and a warm smile creasing her patrician face held out her hands. ‘There you are, Miss Bracewell, and right on time, too. I like promptness in a young gel.’

Frederica didn’t know she had an option but to be on time. She took a deep breath and made her curtsy. ‘Good morning, my lady.’ Good. No hesitations.

As she raised her gaze, she saw that Lady Radthorn was regarding her with narrowed eyes and slightly pursed lips.

‘Curtsy is good,’ the elderly lady murmured. ‘Gown is dreadful.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Looks nothing like her mother.’

Frederica’s jaw dropped. This woman knew her mother? ‘I b-beg your pardon.’

‘Oh, la, did I say that aloud? John, my grandson, is quite sure I have reached my dotage when I do that.’ She laughed, a bright tinkling sound in the spacious room. ‘Would you like tea? Of course you would. And besides, I want to take a look at your comportment. Nothing like serving tea to separate a lady from a hobbledehoy, I always say.’

Lady Radthorn glided to the bell pull and gave it a swift tug. ‘Do sit down, my dear. My word, you look terrified. I assure you I have not sharpened my teeth this morning.’

Was that a joke? It was hard to tell with such a grandam. Sure her knees were knocking, Frederica crossed the room beneath the critical gaze and perched on the sofa indicated by the lady’s imperious gesture.

The dowager countess took the chair opposite. ‘Now I look at you more closely, I see you have your mother’s lovely skin.’ She touched her own lined face. ‘Poets wrote odes to her complexion.’

Frederica’s heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest, questions stuck in her throat, like a fishbone gone down the wrong way. She swallowed hard. ‘You knew my mother?’ She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was all very well hearing vague rumours from servants and dire warnings from Uncle Mortimer, but the thought of someone actually knowing the person felt like opening Pandora’s Box. She wished fervently she hadn’t asked.

‘Gloria came out the same year as my oldest son.’ She smiled sadly. ‘My poor John.’ She gazed off into the distance, lost in the past. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew that the loss of her son and his wife to influenza had been a huge blow. The current Lord Radthorn had inherited the title as a minor. But that had been years ago.

Frederica shifted in her seat. ‘I’m sorry.’

Lady Radthorn blinked as if clearing her sight. ‘So foolish. What is past cannot be undone.’

Were all those of Lady Radthorn’s generation prone to quote little homilies? Uncle Mortimer spouted them upon every occasion. She clasped her hands in her lap and tried to look calm. ‘True. Some topics are better avoided.’

The dowager looked at her askance. ‘What do you mean?’

Heat licked at Frederica’s cheeks. Oh, why had she said anything at all? ‘The topic of my mother. The Wynchwood Whore.’

Lady Radthorn clapped her hands to her ears. ‘Child! Such language! Where did you hear such a thing?’ She sounded horrified. And disgusted.

It might be one way to do away with an unwanted chaperon. Make her think she was utterly beyond the pale. ‘It is the truth, is it not? The reason why no one in the family mentions her name?’

‘I’m appalled.’

Good. Perhaps she’d send her home.

But Lady Radthorn clearly felt the need to say more. ‘Oh, I’ll admit it was all an embarrassment. But your mother was not…well, not what you said.’

Frederica stared at her open mouthed. Her heart gave a painful squeeze of longing. A yearning to know her mother and not feel ashamed.

It could not be true. The elderly lady was simply being kind, trying to make Frederica feel better. Her mother’s wickedness had been drummed into her for too long for it to be sloughed off as a matter of degree. Her voice shook as she spoke. ‘She had a child out of wedlock. I’m a b—’

‘Lud, child, say not another word.’

Frederica snapped her mouth shut. Now she would be sent home in disgrace.

Lady Radthorn pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. ‘What is Wynchwood thinking, letting you believe this poison? Your mother married Viscount Endersley.’

The world seemed to spin as if she’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. ‘My father is a viscount?’

Lady Radthorn coloured. Someone tapped at the door. Lady Radthorn pressed her finger to her lips.

Her mother was married? The stories she’d heard told of a young woman who bedded men on a whim, no matter their origin. A wicked woman.

Just as she, Frederica, had bedded Robert, because she couldn’t seem to stop it from happening. Because she was wicked. Like her mother.

Her hands were clenched so hard, her nails dug into her palms. She opened her fingers and resisted the temptation to wipe them on her skirts while the butler methodically deposited a silver tray loaded with a teapot, pretty china cups and a plate of iced cakes on the table in front of her chair. She wanted to scream at him to go.

She needed to hear the whole story.

‘Thank you, Creedy. That is all,’ Lady Radthorn said. ‘We are expecting Mrs Phillips shortly. Have Digby help her in with her swatches and fabrics.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ He bowed and left.

‘Where were we?’

‘A v-viscount.’

‘Ah, Endersley. Gloria married the old gentleman under duress.’

‘Old?’

The dowager nodded. ‘His only son died unexpectedly and he desperately needed an heir. Gloria had been in and out of love with several young men during her first Season. Her father was in despair, thinking she would never settle on one. Then rumour had it she’d fallen hard for someone he absolutely refused to countenance.’

‘Like a coachman? Or a criminal?’ Or an assistant gamekeeper.

‘Well, as to that, I couldn’t say. There were rumours.’ Lady Radthorn frowned. ‘All the gentlemen adored her and if they knew this man’s identity, they never said. Gentlemen are like that. But your grandfather, Wynchwood, saw Viscount Endersley’s suit as the answer to a prayer. He was rich, you see, and as usual the Bracewells were balanced at the edge of financial disaster. He bore the expense of your mother’s come-out with the idea she would catch a wealthy man. It was her duty to save them.’

‘So she was forced to marry Endersley?’

‘Nobility marries for duty,’ the dowager countess pronounced. ‘If one is fortunate, as I was, love grows after a time. If not…’ she shrugged ‘…one endures.’ She let go a sigh. ‘Gloria was not the enduring kind, I’m afraid. Endersley knew the child she carried wasn’t his when you were born three months early.’

‘I was born in wedlock?’ She could scarcely believe it. All these years she’d been lectured about her place in life. Lowest of the low. Fortunate the family hadn’t cast her off.

‘Few men will accept another man’s love-child as their own. Endersley put the word out that the child Gloria bore was stillborn.’

They’d said she’d died? She felt sick. ‘And my mother agreed?’

‘Gloria was in no case to agree to anything. Milk fever, you know. It killed her soon after you were born.’

Well, at least that part of the story matched what she knew about her mother. Everyone at Wynchwood saw it as justice for her wicked ways. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t drop me off at an orphanage.’

Lady Radthorn’s brow crinkled. ‘I wondered about that myself, to be honest. My guess is Endersley paid the financially strapped Wynchwood off on condition he keep you. As a sort of punishment. It would have been like him to exact some sort of payment. Or Wynchwood might have done it for Gloria. He loved the gel. He was deeply saddened by his daughter’s passing. Went into a complete decline. When he died, the title passed to Mortimer, a distant cousin of his, along with your guardianship.’