The Scandal Before Christmas (8 page)

He moved the hand at her breast to her waist, and let his fingers fan along her rib cage, to join his other hand curving around the slim circumference of her bodice. “You are exquisite.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked in her solemn way.

“Yes.” And he had to kiss her again to prove it.

He kissed her slowly, carefully, barely brushing his lips along hers in invitation, exploring the plush softness of her lips—such a surprising contradiction to the tense angularity of the rest of her—waiting until she accepted him, and then did more than accept him, until her lips began to move tentatively beneath his.

“My God, Anne. You taste so sweet.” He slid his hands up her sides to her neck to cradle her face, and fan his thumbs along the taut line of her jaw. To hold her while he began to explore her open mouth with his tongue, tasting first her lips, and then the pearly softness inside.

The honeyed warmth of her mouth suffused him as she began to kiss him back in earnest.

He tipped her head to the side, increasing the angle more to his liking, encouraging her with his hands and his mouth and his response, to deepen the kiss. Her response was slow but steady and in another moment, she was timidly tasting his lips, opening her own to let him explore the tart sweetness of her mouth as he wished. And soon she was kissing him as if she were born to it, her tongue twining with his in heat and abandon.

Her hands crept up to his lapel, fisting up his coat, pulling him closer so the wool of her bodice pressed again his chest.

His hands swept down the graceful column of her neck to find the soft sliver of bared skin so he could—

In the distance, a loud slam penetrated the warm cloud of his brain—someone was at the door. He turned his head to listen. “Pinky?”

Anne, pulled away and stood for a moment with the back of her sleeve pressed against her mouth as she tried to recover herself. And then she began to hastily button up her sleeves. “Oh, Lord. Pray it was he, and not my mother listening at your door.”

“Shite.” He swore before he could think better of it. But there was no time for apology.

Pinky’s voice was raised to carry down the corridor. “No, sir. If you’ll just but wait a spell, I’ll fetch the captain for ye.”

Shite, shite, shite. Ian knew exactly what that sort of noise meant. He cursed his luck and set Anne away from him, and found he had to draw a deep breath into his lungs, and clear his throat before he could speak. “Anne?” he asked as he quickly set to rebuttoning her clothing. “We have to get you all to rights.”

She nodded and put her hand up to make sure her pins were still in place in her hair. And then she said, “Wait. Your cravat.” She tugged it into place and smiled—a small, shy, disheveled smile that made her seem young and pretty, and he had to kiss her again.

But he could press only the quickest of busses to her swollen lips before the sound of the door opening made them spring apart, and his father, the Viscount Rainesford, barged his way into the room.

The viscount doused them with them with one cold, assessing glance. And then he said in his usual, sneering way, “When you’re done with your doxy, I’d be pleased to see you in the drawing room. Although why you cannot act like a gentleman, and keep yourself from toying with the servants in your own house, is beyond me.”

Ian felt, rather than heard, Anne’s silent gasp. And there was nothing else he could do to protect her, but brazen it out, and once more lie for all he was worth. “For pity’s sake, Father! She’s not my servant, she’s my wife!”

The moment Ian said the words he wished them back.

“Wife? Her?”

For now he had exposed her to an even greater scrutiny. His father took another step or two into the room, his narrow gaze focused on Anne, his displeasure and condescension written all over his face.

Ian stepped in front of him, belatedly blocking his way. “I will meet you in a moment, sir. In the drawing room. You intrude upon our privacy, and are not welcome here.”

“Interrupted a little
tête-à-tête,
as the damn French would have it? Well, at least I know you’ve been doing your duty on her. Have you gotten her with child?”

“Not here.” Ian’s voice was as commanding and cutting as he could make it, and his father, thank God, for once responded as a normal human being should.

He stepped back. And though he did not apologize, as a gentleman ought, he at least said nothing else inflammatory.

“Pinkerton, show my father to the drawing room, if you would.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Pinky came to attention—or as close to attention as a superannuated old tar dressed in his hodgepodge of checkered waistcoat and calico scarf could do. “This way, sir.”

Pinky held the door open for Ian’s father, who stalked through and down the corridor, and then turned to speak in a whispered aside to Ian. “Right sorry I am, cap’n. I tried to stop him a-comin’ on through, but … And things seemed to be going so well between you and the maidy.”

Anne colored crimson, and turned sharply away, back to the warmth of the fire. But as she stood there with her head down, recovering her breath, the light of the fire silhouetted her figure in the high-waisted brown wool dress. And Ian’s eyes were drawn to the outline of her surprisingly lithe frame—the perfect indentation at the bottom of her spine, and the lovely upward sweep of her breasts where they thrust out against the now tightly buttoned material.

Ian felt himself grow hard again—right there, standing in his book room, in advance of a severe dressing-down from his father.

Who would have thought that the sight of a high-necked, dark wool gown that covered her as effectively as a nun’s habit would have him straining at his breeches, and wondering how in the earth he was going to navigate himself out of his present crisis so he could marry her, and get her locked into a private room where he could finally remove her drab clothes, and see what lay beneath the little wren’s camouflaging plumage?

“Thank you, Pinky. Just see to him, devil take him. Get him a drink.” Another thought intruded. “Oh, devil take
me.
Where are the colonel and Mrs. Lesley? Keep him away from them. Bring my father back in here—we’ll remove ourselves in a moment—just keep the three of them apart until I can think of…”

But he couldn’t think. Not while the blood that ought to have been in his head was still taking its pleasure in other, more attentive parts of his anatomy.

“I’ll go.” Anne whispered so low Ian was sure only he could hear her—retreating into her shy, silent shell. “I’ll see to my mother.”

And before he could say anything else, or apologize, or say he would speak to her just as soon as he had dealt with both her parents and his father, she walked silently out of the room, and was gone.

Their lovely interlude together was over. But, Ian reflected with a vast deal of satisfaction, she had said considerably more than two words.

*   *   *

Her mother was comfortably situated in a very pretty, well-upholstered bed chamber. Anne expected to be given an enthusiastic catalog of the fineness and cost of the furnishings, but her mother, it seemed, for once had other ideas.

“What on earth were you doing with the lieutenant, Anne, all that time? I should not have let you alone with him. It’s not seemly. I worry that he’ll think—”

“He thinks we are contemplating marriage, Mama, not just a couple of country dances at an assembly. A greater degree of informality is called for.”

But a greater degree of intimacy is what had occurred.

Lovely, marvelous intimacy. Much better than she had ever imagined. And she had imagined quite a bit in her narrow bed at home, and on the long trip from Somerset on the Post.

But all was not as it should be. And clearly, in the wake of the arrival of his father, the handsome lieutenant had a good deal of explaining to do. And so did she.

“Mama, did you hear the Viscount Rainesford’s arrival? We didn’t hear anything as we were at the back of the house.” And engaged in an altogether much more
engaging
activity.

No question could have pleased her mother more—she was wild to talk about it. “Well.” She sat up on the very edge of her lovely slip-covered chair. “We were in the drawing room. That funny old servant had brought me a pot of
very
good chocolate, and your father his port, there, while you were wandering the house with the lieutenant. What could you have to talk about all that time, I should like to know?” Her mother paused only to draw breath before chattering on. “But we heard the carriage draw up—a traveling carriage it was, a beautiful chaise and four with a crest on the door. So smart and elegant. And we heard his footman clatter up the steps and knock, but the man—the
viscount
himself—simply burst through the front door.
Burst
through it, without waiting for it to be opened. We heard it slam open. Did you ever?”

Anne shook her head in response to keep her mother moving along.

“And then he
shouted
. Shouted out, ‘Worth, where are you?’ And then to the servant, ‘I knew I’d run him to ground. Where is he, man?’ And then he threw open the door to the drawing room, where we were, and said, “Who the hell are you?” And then he walked off down the corridor, and then that butler, Pinkerton, came into the doorway and bowed to us, and shut the door. And that was that for a bit, until the butler came back and said he would show us to our rooms.”

At this point her mother sat back—at least as far as her stays would allow her—and clasped her hand to her bosom dramatically. “Such a to-do. Such manners, and him, a
viscount
. Makes me wonder if all is right between the viscount and his son. There seems to be something very strange there.”

“Yes.” Anne judged it best to give her mother the bare facts. “The lieutenant has told his father that we are already married.”

For the longest moment her mother said nothing—it was for the first time in Anne’s life that her mother was at a loss for words.

Goodness, there must be quite a storm coming if more than Gull Cottage was freezing over.

“Why on earth would he say that?” her mother sputtered. “I can’t imagine—”

“He will have his reasons,” Anne interrupted. “The same reasons that made him seek out Papa to arrange this marriage.”

“But— Well, I never—”

“You
always.
” Anne firmed her resolve. “But for once you won’t. You won’t say anything. Not to the lieutenant. And not to his father.”

“Anne!” Her mother’s voice was laced with disbelief and outrage.

“No.” She made herself speak before she could wish it back. “Our marriage is our private business, not the viscount’s.”

“It is certainly the viscount’s business,” her mother chided severely. “The lieutenant is his son, and stands to inherit—well, certainly not the estate, but something. Something that will concern you as well. And it is only right that the viscount should want to approve of his son’s marriage.”

“I should think, Mama, that that is exactly the reason why the lieutenant should like to make his father think the marriage has already happened.”

Her mother could not follow. “What on earth do you mean?”

Anne swallowed the bitter tonic of her pride, and let loose the words that had been flying about in her brain like a wheeling flock of sparrows. “I mean, that the lieutenant thinks his father will not approve of me as a wife. I mean, that if you wish to see this marriage happen, you will keep quiet, and keep to yourself, and not be speaking to the viscount. I mean, that if you should like to see
me
married, you will for once hold your tongue.”

Again her mother was dumbstruck for a full minute. “Why Anne, I-I think that is the longest speech I have heard from you in years.”

It was. It was the longest speech Anne had
made
in nearly her whole life. And it felt good. It felt right to say what she thought, and not try to keep it within for fear of displeasing.

A knock came to the door, and at her mother’s call, a stout young woman entered, bobbed a graceless curtsy, and said simply, “I’m to do for you, ma’am.”

Anne rose to take her leave before her mother could argue, or detain her, or say anything revealing in front of the servant. “I beg you would think about it, Mama.” She sketched a quick but respectful curtsy. “I must go.”

“But Anne—”

“I beg you. Good night.” She left before her mother could say any more, and headed down the stairs to find Ian, when the servant Pinkerton—Pinky, Ian had called him—came bustling up the wide, twisting stairwell, half humming, half singing an old Christmas carol.

“We three kings of Orient hmmm,” he was lilting in a well-worn tenor until he saw her. “Mistress,” He bobbed his head as he addressed her. “I’ve got a hot posset here for your mam. I’ll just give it to the girl, then, shall I?” He gestured up the stairs. “But is there anything I can get for you, mistress?”

“Miss will do, if you please.” She felt her face heat with all the usual trouble of speaking to strangers. “I’m not your mistress yet.”

“Ah, but I’ve great hope you will be.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, and slanted his eyes meaningfully down the stairs. “Grand hopes. But I’ll say no more. No more. Is there nothing I can get you? It’s coming on for a raw night.”

“No, I thank you, Pinkerton—”

“Oh, now call me Pinky, if it please you, mistress. We’re to be friends and all.”

Anne had no idea on earth what “and all” might include, but she was nonetheless happy for the offer of friendship, even from a servant. Especially from this cherubic old sailor, who looked to be kindness personified. “I’m honored. I just thought I’d go down, and … perhaps get some air.” It was so much easier to think in the fresh, open air. “I’m very fond of the out-of-doors.”

“Oh, well, we’ve plenty of out-of-doors here at Gull Cottage. But mistress, it’s coming on for a nasty raw night. I can feel it in my bones, I can. But if you’ll allow me…” He bustled up the rest of the stairway and disappeared for a moment, until she heard him knock upon her mother’s chamber door. And then he was hustling himself back to her.